


To be Normal

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Allusions to abortion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baby Fluff, Case Related Gore, Comfort Food, Cravings, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Disaster Malcolm, Domestic Fluff, Dreams and Nightmares, Dry Humping, Feral Malcolm Bright, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gil Arroyo is Filipino, Gil will make sure Malcolm eats something if it's the last thing he does, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Malcolm Bright has Nightmares, Malcolm and Tally pregnant buddies for life, Masturbation, Mild Daddy Kink, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mpreg, Older Man/Younger Man, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Rape is NOT between Gil and Malcolm, Requited Love, Requited Unrequited Love, Rimming, Slow Burn, Unplanned Pregnancy, non-graphic birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 70,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: Prompt: Malcolm has a terrible encounter while out trying to be 'normal' and gets roofied. He doesn't report it and tries to move on but winds up pregnant. He turns to Gil for support who is there with open arms. As they work through the choices Malcolm has to make and Gil is just there more and more their relationship evolves into something more intimate and romantic than either of them could have ever planned for.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 456
Kudos: 332
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ToriCeratops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriCeratops/gifts).



Malcolm wakes up when he hits the floor. He’s disoriented and sore, and when he tries to move, he heaves and spews bile all over the cheap carpet. Sitting nearly makes him yelp.

The statistics run through his mind. He was FBI trained. He knows the way rape cases go, he knows the symptoms of various drugs and how long they stay in the body, knows the assumed percentage of how many victims do versus don’t report their assaults. 

He knows he will fit into the latter category. 

The light hurts his eyes, so he leaves the bathroom light off and the door open. With trembling limbs, he climbs into the cramped bathtub and turns the water on full blast. He waits until it gets hot enough to sting his feet before toggling the shower head on, letting the hot spray hit his face and flatten his tangled hair. There is no washcloth in the tub, but there is a complimentary set of tiny shampoo and shower gel bottles. Both smell horrible and are full of sulfates. He uses the entire contents of each. Most of the shower gel is used on his lower body, over and over again.

He watches the suds wash evidence down the drain. He feels numb.

The water cools down as time goes by, eventually turning brisk, but he stands there until his legs nearly collapse beneath him. When the trembling begins to be too much, he sits gingerly on the edge of the tub and reaches for the towels, finding two small ones nowhere near as soft and luxurious as the set in his apartment. He scrubs his wet body down with them, red streaks appearing on his drying skin. 

It’s not enough. 

He limps back into the bedroom and nearly trips over his shoes. His dark blue dress shirt — his favorite, when he’s trying to draw attention to himself — is crumpled by the door along with his coat and missing half of its buttons, while his slacks are at the foot of the bed. He can’t find his boxers anywhere. Resisting the urge to crawl back into the tub, he pulls all of it back on and leaves a hefty tip on the side table for the poor maintenance worker who will have to clean up his vomit. 

The cab driver snorts and grins when he sees Malcolm. “Fun night?”

He leans his head against the window instead of responding, and, thankfully, the man takes the hint.

\-------------

The first thing he does when he gets to his loft is strip out of his clothes and stuff them, shoes and all, into the garbage. He’ll never wear those again. He doesn’t even want to see them. Then he takes another scalding hot shower, this time scrubbing furiously until he begins to bleed. It still isn’t enough.

He pulls loose pajamas over his raw skin and cuffs himself to the bed.

\------------------

The idea was to be _normal_. Normal single men in their thirties went on dates or went to bars to find dates, so he pulls out his best shirt, the one that clings in all the right places and matches his eyes, and dresses to impress. 

The bar he chooses is one he’s been to before, though it has been years. It’s upscale enough that he won’t stick out too much, but he’ll still draw the kind of attention he wants without it getting back to his mother too soon. His looks and the availability of alcohol will hopefully help to smooth over any initial awkwardness. He hasn’t really been in the dating game for years, after all.

He makes his way to the bartender, doing his best not to scan the room nervously in his excitement, and orders two fingers of a decent whiskey. It goes down smoothly.

“Next one’s on me,” a smooth voice cuts in before he can order another.

Malcolm glances over his shoulder and gives the man an assessing look. “I’ll have the same.” He’s taller, perhaps five or six inches taller than him, which isn’t terribly difficult to be fair. He stands up straight, making use of all of his height, and combined with his crisp undercut and confident smile, he gives off an air of being in charge. It’s not… unattractive. Maybe Malcolm could use a sharp edge or two to get him off his feet and back into the game. 

“I’m Jack,” the man says, settling in next to him. 

The bartender sets another whiskey down for Malcolm and a glass of wine for Jack. Evidently, Jack is a regular here. 

“Malcolm.” He takes a sip of his drink.

The conversation leads into the typical get to know you questions. Malcolm talks briefly of being a profiler and politely inquires after Jack’s career — he tunes most of the boasting out, but learns that the man’s in finance — all the while letting his looks linger, feeling pleased every time they’re returned. He finds himself basking in it more and more as the night goes on. He loosens up and lets himself laugh at Jack’s shitty jokes.

It doesn’t hit him that something’s wrong until his laughs turn to giggles. That’s… odd. His brow knits together, but he’s having a hard time holding onto the thought.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jack says abruptly.

Malcolm nods numbly and stumbles to his feet, despite only having two — or was it three? — drinks. 

Sliding an arm around his shoulders, Jack steers him towards the entrance with a firm hand.

Malcolm is floating. He’s moving, his legs are taking step by clumsy step, and yet he feels like he’s rooted to the spot by the bar. He can tell he’s been drugged. He tries to shout, to get anyone’s attention before they leave the bar, but his mouth and vocal cords refuse to cooperate. His eyes flit around, hoping that someone will notice and realize something is wrong and —

Martin Whitly stares at him from across the room. He’s still in his Claremont clothes, his hands cuffed together in front of him, with an expectant look on his face. He taps his temple with a finger and grins.

As Jack helps him into his car, tucking his legs in for him when the disconnect becomes too much, Malcolm finds he knows _exactly_ what he’s been dosed with.

“Ketamine,” Martin confirms from the back seat. “I believe you’re falling right into a K-hole, my dear boy.”

He meets his father’s eyes in the rear view mirror and tries to scream, to sob. His lips just barely part. Had Jack touched his drink? His father’s old modus operandi was enough of a reason to make him wary about drinks handled by others, so he’s always been careful on the off chance anyone wanted to drug him, and he doubts anything was different about this night. Unless… unless the bartender was in on it. The man had clearly known Jack already. If he was the one to slip ketamine in Malcolm’s drink, then it must have been done when he was distracted by their conversation. Maybe even right as Jack walked up — or could it have been the first drink? Could Jack have picked him the moment he’d walked in the door? His thoughts melt through his fingers faster than he can think them. He can’t focus right now.

“I’m surprised you’re still thinking at all,” Martin says. The chain on his cuffs clinks as he leans back and gets comfortable. “Though I suspect that won’t last much longer. You’ve already hit euphoria, lost your mobility, your speech…”

 _Started hallucinating._ He screws his eyes shut.

“... not to mention the dissociation. You feel all out of sorts right now, don’t you, my dear boy?”

The car comes to a stop. Malcolm didn’t even realize it was moving. 

Jack leaves him in the car for an indeterminate amount of time, coming back with a satisfied grin on his face. He opens the passenger door and hauls Malcolm to his feet. He has to pull a limp arm around his own shoulders and support the smaller man as they make their way down bland hallways littered with doors. “Almost there, baby, keep walking with me” he says soothingly. The lock clicks, and they’re in.

Leaning Malcolm against the wall, he patiently helps him out of his coat, but becomes frustrated with the buttons of his shirt and simply yanks it open.

“Sorry,” Jack says as his hands trail down Malcolm’s chest to his hips. “I was planning on taking this slow, but…” He kisses him, slipping his tongue into the smaller man’s slack mouth and tilting his head for a better angle. 

Malcolm can’t do anything other than let it happen. 

Martin stands in the corner, sipping a cup of tea.

Eventually, Jack pulls him to the bed and sits him down on the edge. He huffs a laugh when Malcolm loses his balance and falls flat on his back. One after the other, he eases his shoes off, tossing them blindly across the room. The slacks go next, left to pool at the end of the bed. Jack looks him over smugly. He pulls a packet of lube out of his pocket and —

Malcolm yanks at his restraints and kicks off his duvet, tears streaming down the sides of his face as he gasps and heaves, screams trapped in his throat. He releases his cuffs and scrambles for the trash can by his bed as the bile rises. It burns a path up his esophagus with a force that stings his already tear-swollen eyes.

He takes a third shower. He puts on a sweater and pajama pants this time, because even the thought of buttoning up a shirt makes him feel queasy, and for the first time in a long time, he desperately hopes Gil doesn’t call him in for a case today. He needs time to pull himself together.

\-----------------

Of course, two days later, the call is more than welcome. He’s spent most of that time alternating between staring at the wall and losing what little he can get into his stomach, and although he’s not completely sure he’ll be able to fool Gil and the team, he needs to get out of his apartment. He just can’t do it alone.

It takes him ten minutes to button his shirt up, his hand tremors making it hard to slip the buttons into the holes as he tries not to remember how it felt when Jack ripped right through them. Putting on a tie and vest is easier. In fact, the added layers comfort him, and he begins to really think he can do this by the time he shrugs his suit jacket on. 

His confidence shatters the moment he leaves the building and greets Gil, who smiles and rests a hand on the back of his neck. 

“You ready, kid?” 

It _should_ be comforting. It usually is, but this time, his shoulders tense so fast it hurts, his breathing going shallow. He reminds himself that it’s Gil. Not Jack, _never_ Jack again if he can help it.

Gil removes his hand immediately. “Malcolm?”

“I’m fine,” he lies and hates himself for it. “Just a little jumpy today.”

“Is it the nightmares?” Gil’s hands are in his jacket pockets now, and he’s standing just far enough away to give them a buffer. Whatever the older man sees in him now, he’s made the decision not to press. This is an out.

He takes it. “Sleep has been difficult, to say the least.” 

They get into the car and drive to the scene in silence, and _that_ Malcolm hates, too. He’s angry that all of his progress in not lying about his wellbeing has been erased overnight. If it wasn’t for Jack — “I’m not fine,” he bites out while they’re stuck at a stoplight. “But I’m going to need time, Gil.” 

Said man glances at him with an unreadable face. “Okay, kid. You know I’m here for you, right?”

“I know.”


	2. Chapter 2

## Two and a half months later

Malcolm lays down on the bathroom floor, sweaty and aching. The stench in the room is horrible, but he doesn’t even have the energy to flush the toilet at the moment. He knows he’ll need to change clothes, too. His current outfit reeks of sweat and pain. 

Eventually, he pulls himself off of the floor and rinses his mouth out. He drops into his bed and cuffs one of his hands — only one, because it lessens the chance of puking in his bed. Changing clothes will have to wait. Thankfully, he’s not vomiting nearly as much as he was right after _that_ night. At first, he would end up clutching the toilet multiple times a day — usually right after being reminded of something he’d rather not think about. It could be anything. The height of someone standing behind him, an appreciative glance from a passerby, a similar voice. It became bad enough that he contemplated talking to Gabrielle about what happened, but ultimately he knew he could not. Did not _want_ to.

The vomiting tapered off slowly, and while he still has his moments, most of them are reserved for the middle of night, when he’s alone in his loft trying not to think about Jack. If he manages to fall asleep, he dreams of him, of not being able to move. If he’s awake, his mind will drift that way at some point. His cases aren’t enough to keep the thoughts away in the early hours. 

On lucky nights his dreams are of his father instead. The ketamine still runs through his system, keeping him pliant, but Martin merely cuts into him to see what makes him tick. Those dreams are vastly preferable, especially as he’s been feeling lethargic lately. It crosses his mind that he might be sick. With how ragged he feels, it would be easy for a cold to drag him down even further, and he knows that Gil has noticed, too. He pushes his luck every time he walks into the precinct with bags under his eyes and a coffee in hand.

At least he knows he’s clean. All of his tests came back negative, which was a massive relief, so he’s reasonably sure that his health problems are either from stress or something other than his assault. Still, he can tell that something is up. It stresses him out and gives him headaches, and some days it’s all he can do not to lash out when he’s asked for the millionth time if he’s okay. 

(He knows the team is worried about him. He’s worried about himself, and that alone scares him.)

\------------

When he wakes up the next day, he takes the time to put a little makeup on. Nothing noticeable, just enough to make him look less sick. He doesn’t bother usually, because the sudden disappearance of the bags under his eyes would be wholly suspicious to anyone on the team, even Edrisa, who only sees him a few times a week. But he has questions for his father about a case. He knows Gil would prefer if he called the hospital instead of making an appearance, and yet something always pulls him back there, to the cell and his father’s grin. This time is no exception. He texts Gil and lets him know he’ll be in later before calling a taxi to take him to Claremont.

The taxi ride is… uncomfortable. It isn’t the same taxi, nor the same driver, but the last time he’d taken one was the morning after, and climbing into the back seat evokes the memory of it. He idly straightens his suit jacket and reminds himself that this is a very different trip. 

Once they arrive, he gladly steps out and makes his way into the psychiatric hospital, promising himself that he’ll call Gil for a ride back. It’s not like Malcolm wasn’t planning on sharing any findings with the team anyway. He signs in at the front and forces himself to be calm.

He hasn’t seen his father in roughly three months. Not in the flesh at least, though if he counts his dreams, it’s only been a few hours. He tracks his breaths slowly, in and out, and steels himself for the visit. 

“Malcolm,” Martin says as cheerfully as always. “Long time no see, my boy.”

“Doctor Whitly,” Malcolm replies. His throat is still a little sore from vomiting hours before. He pulls a folder out from inside his coat and walks just close enough to the line to hand it over. “These are some crime scene photos I’d like you to look over.”

But his father doesn’t take them. He creeps up to the line as much as his tether will allow him to and just looks at Malcolm with sharp eyes. It’s a slow appraisal from head to toe, thankfully without the heat he remembers seeing in Jack’s eyes.

He feels rooted to the spot. “If you’re not interested in helping with the case, I’ll be on my way.”

“You look even more fatigued than when I saw you last,” Martin says, ignoring his ultimatum. “I’d ask if it was just the nightmares, but —” His eyes flit down to his son’s stomach. “— you’ve also gained some weight, which is unlike you.”

“I’m leaving, Doctor Whitly.” He slides the folder back into his coat and turns for the door. He almost makes it, too.

“Oh, _Malcolm_.” He sounds absolutely delighted. “Am I finally going to be a grandfather?”

Malcolm slams the door behind him and strides down the hall with purpose until he reaches a staff bathroom. It’s empty, thankfully. He grips one of the sinks so hard that his hands ache, his knuckles white, and makes eye contact with himself in the mirror. _He wants to rile you up_ , he thinks. _He wants to knock you off balance. Don’t let him._

But it’s too late. He yells and kicks the wall, scuffing his shoe. Then, taking a deep breath, he straightens his suit jacket and pulls out his phone.

“Hey, Gil…”

\-------------------

The thought gives his mind fodder for new nightmares. Sometimes he’s heavily pregnant, sometimes the baby has already been born. In the former, he’s back in bed with Jack, who grins wickedly and splays a hand across the bump. 

( _“Almost there, baby,” he coos as he shucks his boxers._ )

In the latter, Malcolm’s still in the bed, but he’s alone. Ketamine floats through him, pinning him down, and, in the distance, a baby screams and howls. Occasionally, his father is there. Martin sips his tea and talks in great detail about how much longer the drug will be in his system and what he can expect in the meantime. 

But Malcolm is not pregnant, cannot be pregnant. It’s just not possible.

\------------------

## One month later

“Malcolm, kid, wake up.” 

His eyes jerk open and he recoils from a hesitant hand reaching out for him. 

“It’s just me — Gil,” the person behind the hand assures him, and once he can focus, he sees that it is, in fact, Gil. A very worried Gil.

“Why are you here?” he croaks out. He uncuffs his hand and eases into a sitting position.

“I’m taking you to the doctor,” Gil says bluntly.

“What? Why?”

Gil takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “You were supposed to be in for work two hours ago. Something’s up, kid. Everyone can tell you’re off your game at the precinct.”

“It’s probably just a cold,” Malcolm says and slips off the bed, intent on getting out an outfit for the day. He moves a little too fast as he does, and soon enough, he’s curled around the trash can on the floor, losing the contents of his stomach. 

Gil hands him a tissue once he’s done. “Just a cold?”

He sighs and stumbles to his feet. “So maybe it’s not a cold.”

Steadying him with firm hands, Gil gently leads him back to the bed. “I’ll pull out some clothes for you, so just stay there.”

It occurs to Malcolm that this is the first time he's been touched by him in months. The first time that he’s let _anyone_ touch him in months. He takes the clothes Gil hands him without a fuss, even if the sweater and slacks is not what he was planning on grabbing. He just feels so… drained. 

Gil goes into the kitchen and keeps his back to the bed in order to give him privacy. 

Grateful that Gil didn’t try or even offer to help him dress, Malcolm changes into the clean clothes and pads out to the bar to watch him rifle through the mostly empty fridge. “I haven’t been able to keep much down,” he admits. He’s been eating a lot of peanut butter on crackers lately, and thankfully those tend to settle his stomach. It’s not like Gil won’t find out. He’s reasonably sure the man’s already figured it out. 

“Dammit, Bright.” He grabs the kitchen trash can and empties most of the items in the fridge into it one after the other. “Three quarters of this stuff isn’t even good anymore.” He runs a hand across his face. “Okay, let’s get out of here. I’m taking you to urgent care.”

\-------------------

The ride there is quiet, but instead of being bothered, Malcolm feels soothed by it. He rests his head on the window, closes his eyes, and just listens to the soft music coming from the radio. 

Gil hums along every now and then. It’s something he’s always done, so familiar and predictable.

It nearly puts Malcolm to sleep, but when the radio shuts off, he opens his eyes and realizes they’ve arrived. The sight of the urgent care sign is a source of both relief and dread. Relief, because, in the back of his mind, he knows he needs to see a doctor. He worries that something is seriously wrong with him. It’s not normal for him to sleep so much, and that’s not even taking the nausea into account. His stomach’s never been this sensitive either. The dread he feels comes from the fact that every diagnosis he’s considered is terrifying. Cancer is at the top of the list.

Gil insists on helping him out of the car, quite possibly because he sat there thinking for too long. They walk in together, somewhat close but no longer touching, and the receptionist tells them that there will be a short wait.

The ‘short wait’ is nearly an hour and a half. Malcolm wishes he had a stress ball ten minutes in. Eventually he flips through every magazine on the table next to him, mindlessly taking in articles on home improvement, kid friendly slow cooker meals, and the best ways to bulk up a retirement fund. He hands them over to Gil when he’s done with them until there are none left. 

When the doctor on call finally says his name, he hesitates before following her. “Can you…”

Gil looks at him expectantly, his expression soft and reassuring. “Can I what, kid?”

“Can you come in with me?” God, it makes him feel like an actual child, but with a potential diagnosis of cancer looming in the back of his head, he doesn’t think he has the strength to do this alone. He’s so exhausted and worried, and it’s making him emotional.

They follow the doctor to an exam room down the hall. There’s only one chair in the room, so he perches on the end of the bed and lets Gil take it.

“You came in because of chronic fatigue and nausea?” she says, looking at the sheet he filled in for the receptionist. “Headaches, too?”

Malcolm nods and pointedly does not look at Gil as he admits, “I’ve been dealing with those symptoms for over two months now.”

“Have you been able to keep anything down?”

“Crackers. With peanut butter.” He can practically feel the weight of Gil's worry building next to him. “My stomach has been less sensitive lately.”

She frowns. “At least you’re getting some protein. What about liquids?”

He answers question after question about his diet, his activity levels, how much alcohol he drinks.

“One last question, Mr. Bright — have you been sexually active in the last six months?”

Gil shifts in his seat and opens his mouth to talk, but Malcolm cuts him off with a nod, his throat closed off. He does _not_ want to discuss this now.

“Okay, I’ll put in an order for a blood test, but have you tried taking a pregnancy test yet?”

“There’s no reason to,” he says forcefully. 

“Mr. Bright —”

He shakes his head. “I’m _not_ pregnant.” He isn’t. He can’t be. 

“Kid,” Gil murmurs, and when Malcolm looks over, he extends a hand like an offer.

Malcolm grips it, trembling.

“If your symptoms started two months ago, then I suspect you are at least three months pregnant,” the doctor explains calmly. “We can do an ultrasound now, if you’d like, and I can tell you for sure.”

“I think we’ll do that,” Gil says, looking at Malcolm.

He’s trying not to cry, not to scream. It’s not possible.

Gil gently strokes his hand with his thumb. “Come back to me, kid.”

“I’m here.” His voice cracks, and he clenches his jaw shut.

The doctor comes back with a machine on a cart. She directs Malcolm to lay back and pull up his shirt. 

He closes his eyes as he does so, as if he can shut out the whole experience. He ignores the gel she puts on his stomach and the feeling of the wand gliding over it. He can’t ignore the quiet ‘a-ha’ she utters soon after. 

Gil’s hand stills for a moment before he begins moving his thumb again.

“Based on the measurements, I’d say you’re about —”

“Fourteen weeks,” he bites out. “The last time I had sex was fourteen weeks ago.” Three and a half months since he entered that bar in an attempt to be normal. Three and a half months since Jack drugged him and brought him to a hotel room and _knocked him up_. He can’t hear anything the doctor is saying anymore, or maybe he doesn’t care, because all he can pay attention to now is the fact that he’s pregnant. With Jack’s child.

Gil squeezes his hand to bring him back, and he’s so angry, so _tired_ , that the tears he never wanted to shed sting his eyes. 

“Let’s head out,” Gil says quietly, softly. 

Malcolm refuses to let go until they get to the car.


	3. Chapter 3

They don’t talk about it on the ride back to his loft. They don’t talk about it once they get there, either, and all Malcolm can do is wait for the other shoe to drop, because he’s sure his behavior at urgent care spelled everything out in big bold letters. The doctor must know, too, probably even made a note of it in his chart. And Gil knows him too well. Even if he hadn’t felt flayed to the bone by the news, Gil surely saw that something was wrong and extrapolated the details easily enough. Malcolm respects him too much to doubt that he now knows the gist of what he’s tried so hard to hide, to forget. 

“Kid, surely you use one of those…” Gil pauses and purses his lips as he figures out what word to use. “... grocery delivery services?”

Malcolm blinks. “Yes,” he says slowly, confused. 

“Good, pull it up. We have to get some decent food in your fridge.” He sheds his jacket and drapes it over the back of the couch, telegraphing his intent to stay a while.

“Gil —”

Said man holds up a hand to stop him. “You need to eat more, no matter what you decide to do. I just figured you weren’t in the mood to go shopping now.”

“I’m not,” he agrees reluctantly. He opens the app on his phone and hands it over, knowing that he won’t be able to get out of this without some amount of groceries. It would be just like Gil to go out later and use his own money to buy Malcolm food if they didn’t make an order now, and at least this way, any food that goes to waste will be on his dime. 

Gil sits at the bar and none so subtly pulls the chair next to his out. “The doctor gave me a list of suggestions.” He flattens a folded sheet of paper in front of both of them. 

They go down the paper, crossing off things Malcolm knows his stomach won’t be able to handle, and when they have a short list, Gil looks around in the app and orders most of them in bulk. The more perishable things, like plain yogurt, he adds to the cart in smaller quantities. Malcolm tries to convince him to get less of everything else, too, but ultimately it doesn’t work, because the sheer concern in Gil’s eyes stops him from pushing too hard. Soon enough, the order is in and promised to arrive two hours later.

Gil gets him a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, one of the few things that survived that morning’s purge. He grabs a plain water for himself. He cracks it open, takes a small sip, and fiddles with the cap.

“I know you must have questions,” Malcolm says. The unease from earlier has crept back in now that they’re no longer preoccupied with shopping. He knows that Gil promised not to push so many months ago, but he’s not sure if it still stands. What would he say? Would he even know how to react? He didn’t let Malcolm see anything related to assault cases when he was growing up, and the topic itself never came up, so it’s not easy to predict just how it'll go. Would he be disappointed to know that Malcolm deliberately destroyed the evidence? That he never considered reporting it? Or does he understand? Gil has years of experience on him. He knows the numbers. He has to know why people like Malcolm do what they do.

(The only thing Malcolm knows for sure is that it has to be hurting Gil, realizing that Malcolm was suffering all alone for so long. Never mind the fact that Malcolm wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ tell anyone.) 

“I do, but I’m not going to press.” Gil sets the cap down on the bar with a weary hand. “As long as you know that I’m here for you, Malcolm, I’ll let you come to me.” He looks conflicted even as he says it. He means it, however, and that’s what sticks out.

Ducking his head, Malcolm says a quiet, “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me, yet,” Gil replies, grimacing. “The doctor told me that we need to get you an appointment with an OB as soon as possible. You don’t have to make any big decisions right away. We just need to make sure you’re healthy.”

Him _and_ the baby. He rests his arms on the bar so that neither of them are in contact with his stomach. He’s touched it in the last three and a half months, of course, but he’d never done so knowing that Jack’s child was growing within. It doesn’t necessarily mean he hates the baby. He honestly doesn’t know _how_ he feels about it. Part of him regrets the fact that he hasn’t taken better care of himself throughout the entirety of his first trimester. If he does decide to carry to term, whether he raises the baby himself or adopts out, there’s a chance he’s already done harm. He hasn’t eaten or slept regularly since he was a child. The past four months in particular have not been kind to him.

(Part of him regrets that he evidently took care of himself _too_ well, but the thought aches, and he pushes it to the back of his mind. He has time.)

He looks up at Gil then. “If I go, would you come with me? I don’t know if I can go alone.” Most likely, he would find a way to push it off. 

“When you go, I’ll be there,” Gil promises immediately. “And I know there are others who would, too. You don’t have to be alone in any of this.”

But Malcolm shakes his head sharply. “I don’t want Mother or Ainsley to know until I make a decision. The same goes for the team.” His mother would be ecstatic at the potential for grandchildren, and as much as he hates thinking it, he’s not sure if the… circumstances would make a difference. Not that he wants anyone to know the circumstances. If he was more prone to one night stands, the questions would be so much easier to brush off. He doesn’t want to see the pity clouding any of their eyes.

“You hold the reins, kid. I’m just here to help.”

“I know.” Before he can think twice about it, he calls his doctor’s office. It’s a rarely used number. He only dials it once a year or so to schedule his annual checkup, and while he’s comfortable with his doctor, he knows that he wouldn’t set up an appointment anytime soon without Gil there across the bar, his presence reminding him that he can’t postpone this. “Hello, this is Malcolm Bright. I’m calling to schedule an appointment.” His hands are trembling, but he’s so out of sorts that he barely even notices it.

Gil does. He rounds the bar slowly and settles back into his seat, letting their shoulders brush before offering a hand the same way he had at urgent care.

Malcolm takes it as he tells the receptionist the bare bones of his situation, leaving out any mention of assault. It settles him, soothing the tremors and anchoring him back in the here and now, even as his mind wanders down to his stomach, to Jack’s baby. He didn’t see the image on the ultrasound. Still, he knows the baby exists now, and it already feels like lead in his abdomen. Going to an OB will mean more ultrasounds, more baby talk, more dreams of Jack, none of which he feels ready for in the slightest.

He manages to get an appointment in three days. And suddenly, it’s too much. Not that it wasn’t before, but everything is catching up to him now, collapsing into a big mess of anxiety and fear. Letting go of Gil's hand, he stands abruptly, unsteadily. “I think I need a nap.” 

Gil gives him a look, part worried and part incredulous.

“I’m exhausted,” Malcolm explains. He is, honest. Now he knows it’s because of the baby. His body is preparing and nurturing even as his mind is in turmoil, and the combination of the two puts a great strain on him. He gives him a tight, lopsided smile. “And I need to think.”

Something in Gil's frame eases, and he smiles back. “Ok, kid. Go sleep. I’ll wait for the groceries.”

\------------

He can’t feel his body. Maybe it doesn’t exist. Maybe he’s just a mind now, no limbs or torso or head ( _or baby_ ). He feels like he’s floating above the bed, weightless and immobile, but he can tell he’s just resting on the covers. 

“Doesn’t that feel good, my boy?” Martin grins at him from the side of the bed. He’s in light green scrubs, something Malcolm had seen him wear once or twice years before, but otherwise he looks just as he does now. It’s a mockery of what might have been. “Now we can begin.” His gaze shifts down to Malcolm’s stomach, heavy and rounded — _gravid_. He picks up a scalpel from the bedside table.

The ketamine keeps him from screaming, keeps him from launching himself at his father and wrestling the blade away. His anxiety threatens to drown him. 

“ _Malcolm_ ,” Martin shouts, but it’s not his voice. He doesn’t even seem to notice he did so, his expression a gleeful sort of calm. He rips open an alcohol wipe and sanitizes his son’s stomach with a gentle hand. “ _MALCOLM, WAKE UP._ ”

He scrambles up into a sitting position and blindly grabs the trash can handed to him, heaving and spitting bile. There’s nothing substantial in his stomach. A hand draws soothing patterns on his back. Once his nausea finally settles, he looks up blearily to see Gil standing next to the bed, quiet and solemn.

“You were screaming bloody murder,” Gil tells him. His brow is furrowed. “It took a few tries to wake you up.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm says hoarsely. He knows exactly where that dream was going, and he feels sick again at the thought of having to sit the whole thing through. “How long was I out?”

Gil removes his hand from his back and checks his watch. “Maybe an hour and a half.”

“Just long enough to fall into REM.” He grimaces. His mouth is sour from the bile, and it doesn’t feel like he’s gotten any rest. It’s become an all too familiar state for him lately. “I need to brush my teeth.”

“Do you think you could eat something? Your groceries came.”

“Something bland, maybe.” He releases his cuff and staggers out of his bed. “Eggs? No cheese.”

“Then go brush your teeth, city boy,” Gil says fondly. “I’ll whip you up some eggs in the meantime.”

\---------------

It’s four in the afternoon, and he’s eating scrambled eggs. Or rather, he’s picking at them slowly, not wanting to upset his stomach. They’re decently cooked. He remembers spending the occasional night with the Arroyos as a child. Gil always woke up early enough to make two breakfasts — something spicy and flavorful for himself and Jackie, and something subtler for Malcolm’s stomach. It was a constant. If he was visiting at breakfast time, he’d get some of Gil’s cooking. He still remembers the last time he had, just before he left for university. It was ages ago.

Gil stands by the sink, washing the pan and bowl he used by hand.

“What if we get a case?” Malcolm says idly.

“Before your appointment? Then JT and Dani will investigate while I take you there.” He finishes drying the pan off and turns around to face him. “I made a promise, kid. It’ll take a lot to break it.”

Malcolm takes another bite of egg and forces himself to swallow it. “I know.” He takes a deep, grounding breath. “Thank you, Gil. You can go back to the precinct now. They must be wondering where you are.”

“They’re working cold cases today, and they know to call if anything big comes in. Sorry, kid, but you’re stuck with me for a few hours yet.” Gil smiles warmly at him, a smile he’s directed at him so many times over the years. It’s the reassuring kind, the kind that promises everything will be fine, and Gil has always been particularly good at it.

Still, as comforting as it is, it can’t erase the dread Malcolm feels.


	4. Chapter 4

In the three days between going to urgent care and his OB appointment, Gil stuck by him. He was careful not to draw attention to Malcolm, of course, but he was doubly aware of how worryingly little he ate during the day. Each day, he arrived at the loft early and made them both a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast (plain for Malcolm, buttered for himself), because he knew he wouldn’t eat otherwise.

Malcolm protested every time. Then he realized just how hungry he was and reluctantly ate his breakfast as quickly as he dared, often finishing his plate while Gil tidied up.

Then they went to the precinct. They met with the team, worked on whatever case they had, and pretended that neither of them could feel the weight between them. Whenever they managed to have a moment alone, Gil was pushing simple snacks into his hands. Sometimes it was a bag of almonds, sometimes peanut butter crackers, and, on one memorable occasion, a little bag of carrot sticks clearly packaged for kids. Gil always waited, patient eyes on him, until he opened whatever it was. He didn’t say anything if Malcolm didn’t finish them, but more often than not, he did. Now that he was aware of his condition, he constantly felt hungry. 

Gil always found a reason for Malcolm to stay back at the precinct until he was ready to leave, too, and so he would drive him back to the loft, where he would make a simple, nutritious dinner for Malcolm. The night before the OB appointment, it’s baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. He didn’t usually make enough for both of them, preferring not to eat the food they had delivered specifically for Malcolm, but that night, Malcolm insists. 

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t want Gil to leave yet. He knows he can’t really expect Gil to stay all night, especially since he doesn’t have a guest room, but it’s difficult to be alone with his thoughts now. The baby always occupies a large chunk of his mind. Inevitably, he gets sucked into it, spiraling down into Jack territory, and even though he hasn’t seen the man since the hotel room, he can remember everything about him in horrifying detail. The shape of his jaw, the smell of his cologne, the way he laughed, the feel of his hands… it’s a perfect picture, and he wishes he could forget it all.

When Gil is there, he can’t _forget_ him, but he can _ignore_ him. Gil has been a safe person in his mind for over two decades now, and combined with the fact that he doesn’t press, his presence serves as a buffer for Malcolm. 

Gil sets both their plates down at the bar, where Malcolm has already placed silverware and napkins in an organized fashion. He grabs them both a water before taking his seat. 

It’s wholly domestic. 

“I’ll be by a little later tomorrow,” Gil reminds him, cutting off a piece of his chicken.

His appointment isn’t until ten. It will be easier not to go into the precinct first, and they don’t have a pressing case anyway. JT and Dani will be fine with cold cases. Even if something big comes up, they can always get the investigation started while Malcolm and Gil finish up at the OB. 

All in all, it means more time alone for Malcolm. He may be sleeping more now, but there’s no way he’ll be able to stay asleep until Gil arrives. He scoops up some mashed potatoes and tries to hide how his hand shakes at the thought. His dreams will likely be intense tonight. 

“Hey, kid,” Gil says quietly, brushing their shoulders, “it’ll be okay. You have time before you have to make any big decisions.” He doesn’t know just how bad Malcolm’s evenings are, that there are things running through his head other than how his appointment will go.

To be fair, Malcolm hasn’t told him any of that. He hasn’t said a single word about what happened to him. Not that he isn’t worrying about the appointment, either. He’s done his research, and he knows he has some time before he absolutely has to decide if he’s keeping the baby, but he also knows it won’t be an easy decision. 

Part of him, deep down, has wanted children. It’s the part of him that taught himself how to braid for Ainsley, that read books to her when their mother was too deep in her depression for storytime. He wants a child to hold and nurture.

The rest of him knows that it’s a horrible idea. He is his father’s son, and the Whitly legacy should die with him. Even if he doesn’t have the name anymore, he was raised by the man, and who knows what he could unknowingly pass on? That doesn’t even take into account all of the medication he needs. He’s a mess of a person. He can’t hold onto a stable relationship or take care of himself. No child deserves that. 

And what if the baby looks like Jack? What if he doesn’t get _anything_ from Malcolm? He’s not sure he’d be able to raise a child that looks like _him_. 

(But what if this is his only chance to have a family of his own?)

“Earth to Malcolm.” A warm hand settles on his shoulder.

He leans into it and tries to clear his mind. “Sorry, Gil. I was just thinking.”

“I could see that. Nothing too heavy, I hope?” They both know it’s wishful.

Malcolm grimaces. “I don’t want to lie to you.” 

“I know, kid.” Gil gives him a reassuring smile and pulls his hand away. “I appreciate it.” He shifts the conversation to cold cases then, throwing out ideas between bites. 

The tactic is clear, and yet Malcolm feels lighter the moment he realizes what Gil is doing and why. He dutifully eats his dinner.

Two hours later, the dishes are clean, dry, and back in the cabinets, and their conversation has dwindled. 

Gil pulls his jacket back on and pulls out his keys. “I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm says abruptly. “For everything.”

“Anytime, city boy.” He eases the door closed behind him. 

\---------------------

Predictably, his dreams are nightmares. This time, however, he isn’t in a bed at all. He’s at a park, bundled in a thick wool designer coat with a smart scarf tucked into the neck of it. He walks down the paved path idly. He may not know why he’s there, but he’s looking for something. The breeze kicks up, chilling his hands, and so he rubs them together, noticing a gold band on his left ring finger. 

“Daddy,” a little boy cries out ahead.

Malcolm feels drawn to him, his steps quickening.

Another man picks the boy up. The child squeals happily as he’s hoisted up onto a hip. The man adjusts his grip with ease and walks towards Malcolm. 

When he gets close enough, Malcolm finally makes out his face — it’s _Jack_. His stomach turns. He wants to turn and run, but his feet feel like they’re nailed to the ground. His mind spins, seeing all the things he wishes he couldn’t.

Jack has a wedding ring. He’s smiling smugly, cruelly. 

The boy on his hip looks just like him. 

Instinctively, Malcolm knows he is their child. He may not look like Malcolm at all, but there’s no doubting it. 

Jack reaches out and places a possessive hand on Malcolm’s stomach. It’s large and round and clearly that of someone near full term. Ignoring the giggling of their son, Jack leans in and kisses him aggressively. “Almost there, baby,” he whispers as he pulls away. 

Malcolm thrashes, yanking at his restraints and waking himself up as pain shoots through his wrists. His jaw aches around his mouth guard. He breathes harshly through his nose, eyes rocketing around the room as he takes in his surroundings. 

Sunshine flaps her wings in her cage. 

He’s still in his loft.

He hesitantly moves to touch his stomach, but his hand flinches away before it can come in contact with the small swell. He’s only fourteen weeks along. There is no little boy with Jack’s features ( _at least not yet_ ). There is no ring on his finger. None of the trappings of his dream exist. He releases his restraints and pads into the kitchen for a bottle of water. He checks the clock while he’s there. It’s just after six in the morning.

There’s no way he’s getting back to sleep.

“Hi, girl,” Malcolm murmurs as he opens Sunshine’s cage. “I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted lately.”

She flies the short distance to his hand and perches there.

He sits on the couch, tucking his legs underneath him, and smiles wanly at her. “I guess it’s just you and me until Gil gets here.”

\------------

Nearly three hours later, he’s long since fed her and settled her back into her cage. He’s even had a snack himself, and although it was just a few spoonfuls of yogurt, it’s more than he would have eaten a few months ago. 

Basically, he’s bored.

Taking another look at the clock, he frowns and pulls out his yoga mat. He doesn’t try anything difficult, just goes for the simple stretches and relaxation exercises to pass the time. He’s in Warrior One when Gil knocks. 

The older man takes one look at his face and sighs. “Rough night, kid?”

“You could say that.” Malcolm pushes his hair back as a few strands slip in front of his eyes. “Nightmares, as usual.”

“Will pancakes help?” With a soft smile, Gil holds up a grocery bag he had at his side. Inside are the unmistakable shapes of a bottle of shake and pour pancakes and a bottle of syrup. The Arroyos always had a few bottles in their pantry when Malcolm was growing up. It wasn’t an everyday kind of breakfast. It was a comfort breakfast.

They may not be as fancy as the ones his mother’s chef makes, but he prefers them. “Pancakes always help,” he says as seriously as he can. 

Gil chuckles and pushes past him to get to the kitchen. “Don’t get too excited. You’re still getting eggs, too.” He sets the bag on the bar, fishing out the pancake mix and unscrewing the lid with a deft hand. Just enough water gets poured into the bottle before he closes it up and shakes it until it forms a cohesive batter. He puts a pan on the stove.

Meanwhile, Malcolm moves around him, pulling out plates and silverware. He slides the closed butter dish across the counter for him, too.

The smell of it melting in the pan is heavenly but has nothing on the scent of the pancakes cooking. Of course Malcolm is aware of the relation between scent and memory. Still, it’s one thing to know and another to experience. The cheap pancake mix invokes a sense of peace for him. He remembers helping Gil in the kitchen years ago, setting the table just as he sets the bar now. It reminds him that Gil cares. 

He wanders over to his bedroom to change while breakfast is being cooked. He strips down and pulls on fresh boxers. It’s likely the doctor will want to do an ultrasound, so he reluctantly bypasses the suits and steps into some less formal slacks and a loose sweater.

“Food’s up,” Gil calls out. Both plates now have two pancakes each as well as scrambled eggs. He cracks the syrup open and sets it between them. “C’mon kid, we have to leave in thirty.”

Malcolm joins him and starts with the pancakes, but he only manages two bites before he can’t stomach any more of it. The syrup makes it too sickly sweet. He frowns at his plate and tries a piece without it. That’s much better, so he avoids the syrup for the rest of his breakfast.

Beside him, Gil looks bemused. “I’ve never seen you turn down sugar like that.”

Malcolm hesitates. “I think it’s the baby.” He’s not sure how to feel about that. It’s the first sign he’s noticed really. Small sugary things have always gone down better than other foods for some reason, and it’s why he keeps a jar of twizzlers on the counter. 

Gil hesitates but gently puts a hand on the nape of his neck, waiting for any sign of a negative reaction before squeezing once. “Don’t dwell on it, kid.”

Malcolm closes his eyes and nods. The touch is, thankfully, a comfort rather than a trigger this time.


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as they step through the door to his doctor’s office, he feels the urge to leave, to turn heel and walk back towards the car, but Gil’s solid presence beside him helps to quell it. He signs in at the desk, and they take a seat. His leg bounces. He tries to hold himself still, and then the tremors in his hand start. In his pocket, his phone starts buzzing, and he ignores it, knowing it’s likely Claremont. _Again_.

Gil hands him a magazine. It’s a smaller and thinner one than the standard magazine. There’s a hummingbird on the front, right under the title — _Birds and Blooms_.

It does bring a smile to his face, which he expects was the entire reason Gil picked it out. He idly flips through it, reading an article on the top ten perennial flowers and then another on the blooms hummingbirds like best. None of it applies to him or Sunshine even, but it’s soothing.

A nurse opens the door to the hall of exam rooms. “Bright?”

He gets up and follows her, aware of Gil behind him. He gets on a scale when she asks, and then she shows them into a room. He’s gained several pounds since he was last weighed. Usually he’s consistent, hovering around the same weight with the occasional pound or two difference. In the back of his mind, he recognizes it for what it is — baby weight. 

Most of the appointment is a blur for him.

His doctor comes in and asks him a few questions ( _when did he last have sex, has he been tested since, what kind of symptoms is he experiencing_ ), all of which he answers absentmindedly. He already told the woman at urgent care all of these things. But then she asks the one question he doesn’t remember hearing before.

“Was the sex consensual, Mr. Bright?” She softens her voice just enough to make herself sound more approachable. She’s tiptoeing around him. 

The words get stuck in his throat. He stares at her and swallows, trying to clear it.

“We have some resources that might help,” she continues. “You don’t have to be alone.”

“I’m in law enforcement. I know my resources,” he says sharply, finally getting some words out. He catches Gil’s worried expression out of the corner of his eye and takes a deep breath. “And I’m not alone, thank you.”

She nods. “Shall we move onto the ultrasound?”

“Sounds wonderful.” He plasters a fake smile on his face. 

He sits through the process for the second time in a week. He pulls up his sweater and closes his eyes.

His doctor, thankfully, does not question it. She simply gels up his stomach and gets to work. Every now and then she murmurs something in Gil’s direction, but Malcolm tunes it all out until she cleans the gel off. 

“Would you like pictures?” 

His gut reaction is no. The part of him that yearns for this makes itself known, however, and he realizes that if he does carry to term, he will regret not getting them. “Yes,” he says finally. “Three copies, if possible.”

One for him, one for Gil, and one for his mother. Not that he’ll be giving it to her until he knows what he’s going to do.

“Now, Mr. Bright, the doctor at urgent care indicated that you were unsure if you were going to keep the baby or not. It is my duty to inform you that you have nine more weeks to get an abortion by New York law.”

He nods. He knows this. He looked it up the morning after he found out. “Is… the baby healthy?” 

She smiles lightly. “They’re a little small, but yes. I would advise you to be more aware of your diet from here on out. We’ll schedule another appointment once your bloodwork comes in. Otherwise, I think you will both be fine with the standard check ups.”

Handing the photos over to Gil as soon as she hands them to him, Malcolm thanks the doctor for her time and strides down the hall back to the receptionist, who schedules an appointment for him in a few days. Gil is steady yet silent next to him as they make their way back to the car. 

“One of those is yours,” Malcolm blurts out once they’re both buckled in. “If you want it.”

Gil smiles, slow and soft, his eyes crinkling. “Thanks, kid. Do you want me to hang onto the others for now?”

“Please.”

\--------------

JT and Dani are still working on cold cases when they get back. Malcolm joins them while Gil goes to his office to tuck the three sonograms into his desk, where they’ll be safe. He knows that Malcolm will know where they are. He also knows that Malcolm wouldn’t have given them to him if he minded. At the very least, he would have said something, suggested a different place or asked him to take them home. 

But Gil, like Malcolm, prefers to spend most of his time doing something, and so his home has become less of a home and more of a way-station to shower, eat, and sleep before turning around and going right back to the precinct. Or the younger man’s loft, as it’s been the last few days. There’s no reason to spend so much time at home without Jackie there, not when he could be at the precinct, feeling like he was accomplishing something. The sonograms are best left in his desk. 

He fills a mug with station coffee and joins the three of them in the conference room. 

Malcolm, thankfully, is looking much more lively than he was just an hour prior. The way he spaced out during his appointment worried Gil, who remembers what he was like just after Martin’s arrest. How he stopped talking and got that blank look on his face sometimes. 

But now… now he’s smiling at something Dani said while JT shakes his head. 

He never bounced back that fast from a blank spell as a kid. It’s a relief, and Gil hopes it stays that way.

\-----------------

The day ends before he realizes it, too caught up in discussing cold cases with the team and snacking on whatever foods Gil hands him. He barely has any time to think about the sonograms sitting in Gil’s office. 

They arrive back at the loft and fall into their new routine. Tonight’s dinner is spaghetti with meat sauce, and Gil busies himself with pulling out pots while Malcolm puts out two place settings on the bar. After a pause, he sets a bottle of red wine and a single glass at the older man’s spot. One glass won’t hurt, right? It’ll just mean he’ll have to stay a little longer, which Malcolm has no objections to. 

He checks on Sunshine and picks clothes to change into after he showers, reminding himself all the while that Gil might be tired, might want to go to his own home and lay in his own bed instead of hanging around at the loft.

But when he walks out of the bathroom, hair still damp and clothes still clinging to him ever so slightly, Gil has already uncorked the bottle and poured himself a small glass.

He takes a sip of it and turns around. “Dinner’s almost done, kid.” 

When it is, they eat quietly, comfortably, moving to the couch once the plates are cleaned and dried. Malcolm turns on a classic movie channel, and they catch the back half of _The Wizard of Oz_. 

It’s peaceful.

\-------------------------

Home alone after Gil leaves, Malcolm’s relieved that the sonograms aren’t anywhere in his loft. He knows that he would give in if they were, that he would let himself peek and analyze and research. He’s already done some light research. Since he’s over twelve weeks, it’s possible that his doctor knows the sex of his child. It’s possible she told Gil. He’s not sure if he wants to know, or if it matters. Were they kicking or wiggling during the ultrasound? Sucking their thumb? He can’t feel a thing yet, but the sites he’s consulted assure him that those things are happening. His baby even has fingerprints now.

At least he knows they’re okay. Nothing in the demeanor of the doctor or Gil indicated that anything is wrong, and Gil was also completely comfortable over dinner. Malcolm knows him well enough to feel confident about that. 

He wanders into the bathroom and lifts up his shirt, not touching his bump but purposefully looking at it for the first time since his trip to urgent care. It’s not large. On some people, it probably wouldn’t even read as a baby quite yet, but he’s not sure how he didn’t notice before. He doesn’t eat much, hasn’t since he was in single digits. A curve like that is abnormal for him. 

Tentatively, he rests a hand on it. There’s so little there that he doesn’t have to spread his fingers to feel it all. The tremors start up, but he keeps his hand where it is, cradling his child, until he can’t take it anymore. 

He cuffs himself into bed and knows it will be a rough night. 

\---------------

His dreams — nightmares — are short flashes of scenes interspersed with periods of wakefulness. He’s tempted once or twice, as he lies in bed, sweaty and anxious, to just stay awake until Gil comes by for breakfast, but being awake and alone isn’t great either. He can’t be alone with his thoughts, awake or asleep. 

So he sleeps until he jerks awake, forces himself to calm down, and falls asleep again — rinse, repeat. It’s only when the sun begins to peek through his window that he gets up for the day. He takes another shower to rinse the nightmares off. He dresses. He feeds Sunshine. Then he rolls out the yoga mat and does a short routine, anything to keep his mind away from where it wants to wander.

When his phone rings about twenty minutes before Gil is slated to arrive, he answers it without a thought, hoping and praying that he's calling to say he’ll be early rather than late.

But it isn’t Gil.

There’s a delighted noise from the other end of the line. “My boy,” Martin cries. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for so long. How’ve you and my favorite grandchild been?”

_My_ boy. _My_ favorite grandchild. Malcolm feels weak, his hands beginning to tremble. Of course his father has laid claim to the child growing within him. He shouldn’t have expected any less of The Surgeon. “I don’t recall you having any grandchildren, let alone a favorite. Unless you have other kids somewhere, Doctor Whitly.”

“Oh Malcolm,” Martin says, his voice soothing and sympathetic, “this denial is not healthy for either of you. You must be at least in, hmm, your second trimester by now? You were already showing when I saw you last.”

“You’re mistaken,” he says shortly, and immediately he knows it was the wrong thing to say.

“No, I don’t think I am,” Martin drawls. “I’d be happy to suggest some great doctors for you, my boy. Oh! Have you found out the sex yet?”

“Goodbye, Doctor Whitly,” Malcolm bites out. He can’t deal with this right now. He ends the call abruptly, cutting off whatever his father was planning to say next.

Not that that will stop him. No, Martin will leave him voicemail after voicemail just as he has in the month since he last visited, but Malcolm will continue to delete them without listening. 

He sets his phone on the bar in the hopes that the urge to chuck it at the wall will diminish if it’s not in his hands. Unfortunately, he’s too keyed up for yoga now. He knows he won’t achieve a single second of peace that way today, no matter how long he tries to clear his mind.

He drifts into the bathroom instead, his hands automatically hiking up his shirt to reveal his bump. His child. Martin’s call has definitely given him thoughts. Why should he subject another child to The Surgeon? His father wouldn’t be content to be ignored. He would call, over and over again, until he could pull Malcolm and, by extension, the child, back into his sphere of influence. He would probably pull some strings to get pictures, too, as well as whatever announcement Jessica will insist on as soon as she knows.

_If_ Malcolm keeps the baby. He probably shouldn’t. Because of Martin, because of Jack, because of _himself_.

But he undeniably felt a sense of indignancy, of protective instincts during their short call. He wants to keep this child away from Martin, and raising this child himself is looking more and more like something he wants, yearns for. 

_No one is born broken_ , he reminds himself. Could his child turn out fine despite being related to Martin and Jack? Malcolm likes to think Gil helped him turn out relatively okay, and he's made it plenty clear that he will be around for him and the baby. With Gil on his side, the baby might have a good chance of turning out fine.

It’s the first happy thought he has that day.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding tags as I go along, so please pay attention! There is case related gore/descriptions in this chapter

## 16 Weeks

His and Gil’s breakfasts and dinners together have become a solid routine. Neither one of them question whether or not it will happen. So far they’ve only had one particularly late night at the precinct, and Gil ordered takeout for them instead of cooking, but they still sat at the bar, eating together and enjoying each other’s company. It’s soothing.

Malcolm’s morning routine, however, has changed. He noticed it a few days before, and it’s unfortunately proven to be as consistent as their meals together. 

His dreams are not always nightmares. At least not fully so. His hormones must have shifted, and now, every morning, he wakes up hard and aching with the tail end of a sex dream slipping through his fingers. The worst ones are the ones that involve Jack. He finds himself back in the same hotel room, in the same bed with the same weakness in his limbs, pregnant this time, and the man tells him over and over how _fucking hot_ it is that he’s carrying his child as he thrusts in, out. 

After those, Malcolm throws himself into the shower and turns the dial to the coldest setting, not even wanting to touch himself until he’s no longer stiff. He stands there the longest on those days. 

Sometimes, however, the dreams are pleasant. He doesn’t know who the other man in those dreams is, but he knows it isn’t Jack behind him, cradling him and his baby. They often reach over and rest a warm, reassuring hand on his bump, their face settled in the curve of his neck. They kiss him there, soft and loving, as they work their hips languidly. He can move, but he doesn’t feel the need to do much, with how they’re taking care of him. That warm hand even shifts down off of his belly and wraps around his cock to lazily jerk him off. 

He always wakes up before he can orgasm.

But, unlike his dreams about Jack, he doesn’t feel disgusted with himself when he realizes that he’s still hard. He releases his cuff and drifts a hand down his stomach to grip himself, trying to mimic the feel of that hand. He takes it slow. He teases and thrusts up into his hand every now and then. He lets the heat in his groin build and build and build until he gasps, streaking himself white. 

His shower on those days is a slow, relaxing affair, just to rinse the smell of sweat and cum off of him before Gil can come over.

He’s still not wholly comfortable with his body after his night with Jack, but there’s something about that dream that puts him at ease, encourages and reassures him.

He puts it out of his mind when Gil knocks. 

\----------------

They finally get a somewhat challenging case. They’re called in by another officer, who went by the apartment to perform a wellness check after the man who lived there failed to show up for work a full six days in a row. 

It’s a dissection, for lack of a better word. The body is laid out on the bed, all four limbs tied to the four corner posts, and the entire torso is open, the flaps of skin pulled back and nailed to the mattress. Underneath the body is a layer of thick plastic, which protected the mattress itself from the blood that pooled around the body. The organs have been extracted and gently laid down around the corpse. The man’s face is the picture of agony and doubly gruesome due to the stitching the killer did to keep his mouth sealed shut.

Outside of the bedroom, there are absolutely no signs of anyone other than the man in the bed, whom they’ve ID’d as the one whose name is on the lease. The door wasn’t forced open, and there isn’t a speck of blood anywhere in the rest of the apartment. They’ve found fingerprints all over, but there’s no guarantee that they aren’t the victim’s. 

Malcolm stands at the foot of the bed, a liberal amount of menthol ointment under his nose, staring at the body. The similarities between the spread in front of him and a high school dissection cross his mind. He can’t be sure what the killer was looking for, but he can’t shake the feeling that they _are_ searching. 

Edrisa confirms that the vic died at some point during the dissection, that he was most definitely alive when it started. 

Unfortunately, there’s not much else they can confirm on the spot. The prints they found will be analyzed against those of the vic, any hairs will be collected and analyzed as well, and Edrisa will pinpoint exactly how the man died, but all of that will take time.

Gil pulls him aside. “You were starting to look green in there, kid,” he murmurs in explanation. 

“I felt fine,” Malcolm assures him, “but there’s not a whole lot more I can do here anyway.”

With a nod, Gil gestures for the rest of the team to join them. “What’ve you got so far?”

“Our vic either knew him or was comfortable letting him in,” JT says immediately.

“And it doesn’t look like there was a struggle,” Dani adds. “Out here, at least.”

Malcolm nods. “Yes, our killer is either someone familiar to the victim or very charming. I don’t imagine we’ll find any of their prints in the apartment. The victim was set up like a frog in a dissection, with the nails acting as the pins.” He glances back towards the room, where Edrisa and her team are getting ready to remove the body. “They even went to the trouble of putting down plastic before they started. This wasn’t necessarily about the victim, but what was inside of them.”

“Do you think we’re looking for someone with medical experience?” Gil asks.

“I’m not sure,” Malcolm tells him honestly. “I’d say they’re practiced… but that doesn’t mean they have a degree or a job in the medical field.” His own father’s kills were exercises in surgery, but it didn’t take a degree for a killer to pick up a scalpel. This kill is nowhere as detailed as The Surgeon’s.

Gil frowns and asks Dani and JT to stick around and help finish up with the scene while he and Malcolm leave for the precinct. “Lunch is on me,” he adds, because it will look odd if they skip out to eat lunch while the rest of the team is tied up with a crime. 

“I’m not sure I’ll want to eat after this,” JT grumbles.

\-----------------

They stop at a sandwich place on the way back. It’s the same place Gil has been ordering from since he was just an officer, and it’s not terribly uncommon for him to pick up lunch there for JT and Dani. Malcolm always passed on the offer, but he’d eaten his fair share of sandwiches from there as a kid on stakeouts with him, so Gil knows his order by heart, too. 

He doesn’t give him a chance to refuse this time. He orders all four sandwiches together, throwing in a big bag of chips, a few sodas for himself, JT, and Dani, and a water for Malcolm. When they settle in his office, he hands Malcolm his sandwich directly, setting the water down on the edge of the desk. He tucks into his own food, and they discuss the case between bites.

\-----------------

## 17 weeks

The case is still unsolved, but now, they have two murders instead of one. The second victim died the same way as the first, and none of the prints or DNA taken from either scene match anyone other than the respective victim. 

“Your killer is getting better,” Edrisa tells them with a bounce in her step. “Look here, these incisions are cleaner and more even.”

Malcolm leans in to see —

And immediately backpedals, a hand rising to cover his mouth and nose as his face pales. 

“Bucket,” Gil barks out. He can tell exactly where this is going.

Edrisa looks at him, startled. “What?”

“Bucket. _Now._ ”

She hastily hands him the closest trash can, which he hands over to Malcolm.

Malcolm grabs it and ducks his head in, immediately vomiting into the plastic lined can. 

Beside him, both Dani and JT take a few steps back at the sound, while Edrisa gapes.

“My cold storage is working,” she blurts out. “The smell shouldn’t be any stronger than it usually is.”

“It isn’t,” Gil says, stepping in while Malcolm tries to catch his breath. “I shouldn’t have pushed lunch on him earlier. C’mon Bright, I think it’s time I took you home.”

Malcolm puts up a token protest, but suddenly being anywhere near the corpse makes his stomach turn, and he’s well aware that he still isn’t eating as much as his doctor wants him to. He can’t afford to lose everything he’s managed today. “I can stay! I just won’t go back into the morgue. Please, Gil.”

For a second, it looks like Gil is going to give in like he often does. Then he shakes his head lightly. “Kid, you’re as green as can be. I’m taking you back to the loft to rest.” His demeanor softens. “We’re not getting much done today, anyway. The bastard didn’t leave any decent evidence behind this time either.”

So, reluctantly, Malcolm lets Gil drive him back to the loft. 

Once there, Gil makes him dry toast while he changes into loose clothes. “I’ll stop back for dinner. You’re not getting rid of me for the day just yet.”

Malcolm grins weakly, still feeling a tad nauseous. “Promise?” The thought of being left alone for the rest of the afternoon and all the way through to breakfast doesn’t help how queasy he feels. He _needs_ their shared dinners.

“Promise.”

\------------------

Gil never thought to ask him to promise to stay at the loft. He was distracted or worried or maybe he didn’t think he had to worry about Malcolm heading to Claremont anymore. Not with the baby. He noticed how Malcolm had already cut himself off from his father, how he stopped going months before.

But Malcolm feels like he’s at a dead end with this case. Two bodies in, and they have no leads. He still can’t figure out what the killer is even looking for in their victims. There’s no obvious connection between either of them, and although their deaths aren’t up to the level of his father’s victims’, he can’t ignore the fact that Martin might be of help in this case.

Slipping into a suit, complete with vest and tie, he calls for a taxi.

The ride itself is difficult enough. He’s still unsettled in taxis, still transported back to the morning after, sitting in the back seat in day old, ripped clothing, missing his underwear and feeling both destroyed and removed from the whole situation. 

He needs to see his father, however, and Gil would have refused to drive him there. Walking through the front doors, he makes his way to the desk and signs in as if it hasn’t been nearly two months since he was there last. 

Mr. David stays in the hall when he asks him to.

“Malcolm, what a pleasant surprise!” His father leans back in his chair, grinning. “How’s—”

“If you finish that question, I _will_ leave, Doctor Whitly,” Malcolm says sharply, with more finality than he’s ever managed with his father before. He’s too raw from the taxi ride to handle this now, though he knows he wouldn’t be able to handle it regardless. “Cooperate with me, and… you can analyze me all you want. _Silently_.” He’ll still feel his gaze, see the cogs turning in Martin’s eyes, know that he’s cataloging every bit of evidence of pregnancy he can. But he’ll endure it for a break in this case.

His father looks at him, scanning him head to toe before his eyes flit back up to his face. “What do you need from me, my boy?”

Malcolm hands him the folder of crime scene pictures he’d managed to smuggle out of the precinct without Gil noticing. Inside are two basic shots — one of each victim, laid out on their respective beds exactly the way the killer left them. 

Martin tsks. “This is amateur work. I hope you don’t expect me to confirm your killer went to medical school.”

“Just tell me your thoughts,” he says, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Well, this is clearly exploratory surgery.” Martin stares at him briefly, prolonging the moment and no doubt trying to test his patience. He always did want to be in demand. “Although not done by a surgeon. Your killer is more akin to a student slicing into frogs in their high school biology class. There’s no _finesse_.”

Malcolm ignores the fact that he had the same thoughts. “You said exploratory surgery. What do you think they’re looking for?”

“Looking, discovering — who can tell, really? I don’t think your killer knows how the body works.” 

“But they want to.” Malcolm ignores his father for a moment, reframing the case in his mind. “That’s what they’re looking for. Knowledge. They’re learning.”

“Oh, I missed this,” Martin says gleefully. “Solving cases with your dear old dad, as a family!” He glances down at his son’s stomach again, meaningfully. “Isn’t it exciting?”

“I’ll be on my way now, Doctor Whitly.” He’s polite, distant, cold.

On the way out, he brushes a hand across his abdomen and promises them they’ll _never_ have to call that man grandfather.


	7. Chapter 7

## 18 weeks

Malcolm spends the early hours looking over the case files. His profile has evolved since visiting his father the week prior, but they still aren’t much closer to catching their killer. The culprit, he thinks, will have either failed out of or never gotten into medical school. They do possess some knowledge of the human body, just not the grace and skill that comes with experience. They don’t necessarily feel wronged by anyone specific, however. There aren’t any connections between the two victims so far. No, their killer doesn’t care about the victims themselves, likely only choosing them based on how easy it is to get them alone, and once their use is gone, they’re left to rot. They’re not people to the killer. They’re learning tools. 

He grimaces as he stands up, his back aching despite his usually good posture. It’s the baby. His child is now the size of an artichoke, according to the website he finds himself checking more and more as of late, and their growing size is putting pressure on his ligaments and shifting his center of balance. The bump itself is still relatively small, which he’s grateful for. He knows in his heart that he won’t be terminating his pregnancy, but he’s far from ready to announce it, either. 

Jack still torments him in his dreams. Malcolm doesn’t want to risk the man remembering him in real life. 

Making a mental note to order an exercise ball, he wanders over to the living room and rolls out his yoga mat. He starts on the floor, sitting cross-legged on the mat with his eyes closed and his breathing slow and deep. He tries to shake off any thoughts of Jack or his father. He ignores the persistent thought that his child will be related to both of them, the product of a rapist and the son of a murderer. 

Peace is his goal. He takes what little he can get.

Next he shifts onto all fours, his hands below his shoulders and his knees below his hips. He arches his back and drops his head in cat pose before letting his stomach sink as he looks up in cow pose. Both poses are supposed to help his back, but, he muses, sitting at his desk for three hours straight without moving likely undid all of the progress he may have made yesterday. He’s holding the latter as the door opens.

“...you okay, kid?” Gil says behind him, amusement threaded through his voice.

He shifts back into the first pose. “It’s yoga,” he answers dryly. After another deep inhale, deep exhale, he stands up and pushes his falling hair back. “It was recommended by quite a few pregnancy blogs.”

Gil smiles slowly, hesitantly. “Have you made your decision then?” 

Brushing past him to get a bottle of water from the fridge, Malcolm shrugs. It’s stiff and awkward despite the yoga. “I’m not sure. I’m just… covering my bases. If I go through with this, I don’t want this child to start with disadvantages because of how I took care of myself while carrying them.”

“You know you don’t have to, right?” Gil slides his hands into his jacket pockets. “No one will judge you if you can’t.”

Malcolm gives him a look. “My mother might. Society _will_.”

“Well, _I_ won’t. If you want this baby, I will be right there with you, supporting you. If you don’t, none of that will change.”

“I know,” Malcolm says, wincing as his voice cracks. “I’m not sure what I want yet, Gil.”

“And that’s fine, too.” Gil comes up to him then and wraps a warm, comforting arm around his shoulders, which Malcolm leans into without a thought. “I’m thinking breakfast sandwiches today, what about you?”

“With bacon?” God, he’s been craving it lately. He usually avoids bacon, the greasy quality of it not sitting well in his stomach, but all he wants now is a good greasy, salty piece of bacon. With some cheese. Not the good kind, either. He wants American cheese. The eggs he can take or leave.

Gil looks pleased, probably because it’s the first time he’s actually asked for something specific instead of just eating whatever is given to him. “Sounds good to me, city boy. C’mon, let’s go hit the bodega.”

\-------

The call comes in right after they get their sandwiches. Someone phoned in claiming they heard loud noises coming from the apartment next door. The first officers on the scene busted the door down after hearing some noises themselves, only to find the renter being tied into their own bed by a man who bolted as soon as he saw them. The bedroom, unfortunately, has a door to the fire escape out back, and he was able to get out before they could stop him. It’s their killer, and he’s being chased on foot.

Gil throws the car into drive as soon as the doors close. He knows JT and Dani were called in, too, but every second counts.

Beside him, Malcolm digs into his sandwich while it’s still hot, licking the grease off of his fingers after the last bite is gone. There’s a thrum of excitement building in his chest. Not only are they close to catching their killer, but they may manage it before he adds a third victim to his body count. With how careful the man has been, Malcolm can’t help but feel a sharp thrill at stopping him before he can officially call himself a serial killer. 

“Be careful,” Gil tells him as they get out of the car in the approximate area the killer has fled to. He knows he can’t stop Malcolm from getting involved, pregnant or not. If the call came in any earlier, he wouldn’t have picked him up first. Perhaps it’s not his right, but the thought of him and the baby in the line of fire… He clenches his jaw and reminds himself that Malcolm hasn’t made a decision yet.

They make their way down the alleyways in the direction of where the killer was last seen heading. In theory, they and the original set of officers on the scene should be closing in on the man from two sides. If JT and Dani have already arrived, the best case scenario is three sides. Gil already has his gun out and ready.

“Gil,” Malcolm says tersely, and when said man looks back, he has his hands up, a scalpel held to his throat by an unsteady hand. His eyes are wide, lost.

“You need to leave me alone,” the man behind him hisses. He’s sweating. It’s no wonder with how he’s dressed — he’s covered neck to toe in some sort of body suit, not unlike what a painter might wear. He has gloves on, too, duct taped to the cuffs on the sleeves. The attached feet of the suit are dirty from his escape. “Call everyone off.”

“You’re not going to do it,” Malcolm says.

The scalpel nicks his neck as he talks.

“If you slit my throat,” he continues flatly, “you’ll lose your leverage. Lieutenant Arroyo will have you down on the ground before my body hits the asphalt.”

The man laughs, short and cruel. “Oh, and so I should just let you arrest me now?” 

But Malcolm moves on as if he never spoke. “Which means you won’t be able to learn anything from me. My death will be a waste. If it’s not for the pursuit of knowledge, it’s just _murder_ , isn’t it?”

There are so many things Gil wants to say, but his vocal chords refuse to cooperate. He knows Malcolm is reckless, knows that he has a tendency to ignore his own mortality for the sake of catching a killer. He knows this shouldn’t be surprising. It still burns to have to see it. His mind races. 

He shouldn’t let the man get away. 

He _can’t_ risk Malcolm’s life.

The killer doesn’t let up, and if not for his position behind Malcolm, he might have seen the decision flit through his blue eyes.

Malcolm twists his head to the side and _bites_. Despite the gloves the man wears, the pressure with which he snaps his jaw shut is agony against the small bones and nerve fibers in the hand.

Yelping, the killer drops the scalpel, opening himself for an elbow to the face. It breaks his nose and draws blood. 

“Gil,” Malcolm calls out, “handcuffs, now!”

He fumbles, shocked, but manages to toss them.

Malcolm catches them and cuffs their killer.

Gil finally pulls himself together to call it in, his heart racing. 

\--------------------

## 19 weeks

He wakes up from another good dream. This time, his mystery man had his legs hooked over his shoulder as he wrecked him, rimming him until he was whining and shaking. He’s still so achingly hard that he doesn’t give himself much time to think before he grabs the bottle of lube he hasn’t touched in nearly five months now. He coats his fingers in too much, not enough.

The first press makes him freeze. He _wants_ this, however, and so he closes his eyes and imagines that tender touch from his dreams before trying again. His cock twitches as his finger slips in. He lets his mind focus on his mystery man fully. He thinks about all of him, the gentle caresses, the teasing touches, the bruising grip on his hips. Mostly of all, he thinks about the man’s dick and how it felt inside him, filling him up. 

He puts a second in and lightly scissors them. Surely, the man would prepare him slowly, drawing it out until he was a writhing mess. He’d kiss Malcolm while he did it, too. He’d kiss like he fucked, lovingly. He’d suck love bites into his neck, his beard reddening the skin around them.

Gripping the sheets, he works up to a third finger and tries to ignore his dick. He doesn’t want this over too soon. He fucks himself with his fingers and moans at the feeling. God, he missed being able to do this. He picks up the pace.

He finally wraps his free hand around his cock and that’s that. He seizes around his fingers, digging his heels into the mattress and crying out as he cums all over his stomach. 

Afterwards, the bed keeps him in its clutches for a little while longer. It’s only when the mess he’s made of himself starts to become too uncomfortable that he gives in to the siren song of the shower. 

He’s staring at his profile in the foggy mirror when he hears the door open. His bump is definitely larger. He would stay and examine it for longer if not for Gil. “What’s on the menu today?” he calls out through the cracked door as he wraps a towel around his waist.

“If I’d known you were eating breakfast again, dear, I’d have brought something.”

It’s his mother. His mother is in his loft, uninvited, and all he’s wearing is a towel, which does nothing to hide his bump. 

His mouth feels dry. “Hello, mother. I didn’t realize you were visiting today.” He peeks through the crack, holding the door nearly closed so that she can’t surprise him any more than she already has. When he sees her messing with his coffee maker, he sneaks out to the bedroom and throws on some loose clothing. Hopefully, it’s enough.

“Can’t a mother visit her only son?” She turns around, sipping a cup of fresh coffee. “Do you want a cup?”

He shakes his head. He’s been holding off on the caffeine. For the baby. “I don’t have much time right now. Gil should be by soon.”

She sighs. “Then I’ll make this short. I’m looking to invest more of our oodles of money, and I’ve set up a business dinner of sorts. I’d like you to be there. You know how it is, they’ll take me more seriously if my _handsome_ son is around.”

“Handsome?” he says dryly. So that’s it. “Who do you want me to charm, mother?”

“Oh, you’re just his type,” she gushes. “And I know he fits yours. This could be good for you!”

“Who is it?” he asks again, giving her an exasperated look. 

“Fine, ruin my fun.” She pulls out her phone and shows him a picture. “His name is Jack Lewis, and he’s lovely.”

He stops breathing. _Lovely_. Oh, he knows _exactly_ how lovely Jack Lewis is, and the baby growing within him is proof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I neglect to mention I wasn't done with Jack? Next chapter will pick right back off where this one ended


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up right where the last chapter left off!

“What’s wrong?” Jessica’s voice is serious for the first time that visit. 

He sways slightly.

Panicking, she herds him over to the couch and sits next to him. She puts a hand on his forehead, which he bats away. 

It’s only when she starts talking about calling an ambulance that he manages to speak. “I’m fine.”

“Fine? That was not _fine_ , Malcolm. Have you been getting enough sleep?” 

“More than you would think.” He doesn’t want to discuss this, not with his mother, not now, but he can’t give her nothing after that display. He leans back into the cushion behind him. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with your dinner party, Mother.”

“I’m not worried about that right now,” she insists. “Dear, if you’re sick —”

“Mr. Lewis and I have already met.” He’s not sure he could say _Jack_ out loud right now. _Mr. Lewis_ is a touch more tolerable. “He’s not my type. In fact, I would suggest you cancel your dinner. You wouldn’t want him handling our finances.” For all that he’s unsure how she will feel about the baby, he knows this. She would rather be destitute than work with someone who… _assaulted_ one of her children. 

She purses her lips. “I can’t cancel on such short notice, but —” She looks him straight in the eyes and cradles his cheek with a manicured hand. “— I don’t have to accept their offers.”

“That’s all I can ask,” he murmurs, feeling like he hasn’t slept in a week even as the relief courses through him. Her touch is soothing despite the light sharpness of her nails. “That and that you keep me out of it. No mentions, no pictures.”

“I wish you felt comfortable telling me why, but I will.” She lets her hand drop. “You said Gil was on his way?”

He nods.

“I’ll stick around until he gets here.” And she does. Mostly she paces around making dissatisfied noises at how empty his loft is, though she does comment positively on the contents of his fridge.

(He doesn’t tell her that Gil picked all of his groceries.)

She even answers the door when Gil gives his light, cursory knock.

“Jessica,” he says, startled.

“I’m on my way out. Be a dear and make sure he doesn’t do anything too strenuous today, will you?” She glances back at her son, who is still sitting on the couch, eyes closed. “He was looking a little peaky earlier.”

When Gil gets over to the couch, he sees what she means. Malcolm is worryingly pale. He looks more stressed than he has in weeks. “Hey kid.” He sits on the couch next to him.

Malcolm immediately leans into his warmth, cushioned by the soft sweater he wears. “Gil,” he says, voice breaking slightly. 

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, Gil pulls him in closer. “I’m listening, Malcolm.”

“It’s him,” he mutters. “I didn’t think I’d have to see him so soon. I didn’t. I didn’t _think_.”

Gil runs his hand up and down Malcolm’s side. He lets him talk.

“I can’t, Gil. He can’t know. I won’t _let_ him know about us.” His entire body is shaking, his throat feels like it’s collapsing, and he can feel the sting of tears growing in his eyes.

“Hey,” Gil says suddenly. He pulls Malcolm’s hand to his chest and holds it flat there. “Breathe with me, city boy. In, out. In, out.” He breathes deep, exaggerated. “I’ve got you. C’mon.” 

They sit there, breathing together, until Malcolm feels less like the world is crushing him. 

“It might be best if you stay home today,” Gil tells him. There’s no judgement in his tone, just concern.

“I need to get out of here.” He grips his sweater where his hand still rests. It’ll stretch it out some, but neither of them will care. Hell, Malcolm will buy him a hundred replacements if he wants. Nice ones, too, not the off the rack kind he has on now. “If I’m alone…”

“You’ll be stuck with your thoughts. Got it.” 

“Thank you, Gil.” He releases his sweater and shifts until he’s sitting up straight again.

“Don’t mention it. I think there’s more pancake mix in the pantry, if you’re up for it.” When he gets a nod in return, Gil squeezes him in a quick side hug before extricating himself and getting up to the kitchen. 

They don’t talk about Jack. Or rather, Malcolm doesn’t bring him up, and Gil doesn’t push, knowing that he'll come to him when he feels up to it, when he's ready.

Before they leave, Malcolm changes out of his loose clothing and into a suit. It's more snug than usual. “Does this look alright?”

Gil arches a brow. “How so?”

“Do you think it makes me look pregnant?” Malcolm clarifies. He looks down, unable to see anything other than the curve he’s developing. “I’ve noticed my bump is growing.”

Gil looks at him consideringly. “The OB said you should be gaining about a pound a week about now.” 

“I guess I won’t be able to hide it — _them_ for much longer then.” His smile is weak, brittle. “This is one of my less slim fitting suits.”

“I don’t think anyone will guess today, but you might want to consider getting some bigger clothes soon. I’m sure you can pay some tailor to make it a little less obvious.” He doesn’t bother to point out the obvious. They’re both well aware that the most logical solution would be for Malcolm to stop hiding it. Logical, but not the easiest, not with the situation he finds himself in.

“My family would notice,” Malcolm says quietly. “I thought for sure my mother was going to notice earlier. She practically walked in on me in the shower. I think if I’d taken any longer in the bathroom, she would have.” He absentmindedly smoothes the front of his suit jacket. It’s just loose enough to hide the distinctive swell, though it doesn’t hide the fact that he’s put on some weight. 

Gil shrugs his own jacket back on. “If there’s one thing I know about Jessica Whitly, it’s that she loves her kids more than anything. Will she be frustrated? Probably. But she loves you, kid.” 

“Thanks, Gil.”

\-------------------

At the precinct, Gil immediately benches him. He understands Malcolm not wanting to be alone, but he won’t put him out in the field if he’s distracted. For most of the day, it doesn’t matter. They’re all working cold cases, which means they’re all settled around a conference table throwing ideas back and forth while Malcolm snacks on things Gil sends his way. 

They even have lunch together. It’s JT’s turn, and he goes out to pick up burgers. Malcolm even gets one. Him actually eating lunch no longer turns any heads — among the team at least — but his order for a bacon cheeseburger with extra bacon does garner a second of incredulous silence from JT himself. 

That has nothing on the looks he gets while he’s actually eating it. Dani and JT watch him like he’s some sort of zoo exhibit, or at least that’s how he feels every time he has to wipe the grease off of his chin with another cheap napkin. (It pains him to waste it, but pregnancy hasn’t fried his brain so much that he’s forgotten all of his table manners.) Even Gil gives him fond yet exasperated looks occasionally. The burger satisfies his cravings, though, and that’s what matters most. So far, his baby seems to love savory food the most, with bacon being their favorite. 

Malcolm misses all his sweets. 

Just as they’re finishing up lunch, they get a call, and Gil, JT, and Dani all leave without him. He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t necessarily have to lie, either. When he tells them he’s not feeling terribly great, he really _is_ feeling off. He feels full and tired. His burger doesn’t threaten to resurface, thankfully, although he does feel an odd, gassy sensation in his stomach now and then. It makes him anxious. He’s been able to eat well enough lately, and he wants to avoid losing what he can manage to get down.

He admits this to Gil hours later, while they eat grilled chicken and green beans. 

Gil stares at him, silent and still, before putting his fork down and taking a sip of his water. “Gassy?”

Malcolm flushes. “Yes, Gil, I believe that’s what I said.”

“I’m not sure that was gas, kid,” he says slowly. “Did it feel a bit like fluttering?”

Without thinking, Malcolm’s hand drifts to his bump, gently skimming the surface before falling back down. “You think I felt them moving.”

“You’re far enough along.” Gil begins eating again. He can tell that Malcolm is becoming overwhelmed. “But it might’ve just been gas.”

They finish their meal in silence. When he makes to leave, however, Malcolm grabs his arm. 

“I’m worried,” he says, looking pained at his own confession. “About the… father —”

Gil covers his hand with his own. “Don’t force yourself to tell me, Malcolm. You don’t need to explain anything.”

“But, Gil —”

“I’m fine with moving at your pace,” he says firmly. “Even if that means you never tell me about it.”

His entire frame eases, and Malcolm both hates and loves how patient Gil is being with him. He almost wishes the man would demand answers, demand to know what happened and why the other father isn’t in the picture, demand to know why Malcolm is so _skittish_ nowadays. And yet, logically, he knows that’s not what he needs. 

“Night, city boy.”

## 20 weeks

For days, all he’s dreamed of is Jack. Seeing the man’s picture on his mother’s phone has kicked his nightmares into overdrive, and not even stubbornly thinking of his mystery man before bed works to brush them off. Every night, he’s with Jack. Sometimes it’s the same old dream, in the same old bed with the same paralyzing feeling he remembers from that night. 

But there are new dreams, too.

In the first, his father, still clad in his Claremont uniform, is fixing Malcolm’s bowtie, hands uncomfortably close to his throat. Martin pats his distended belly once he’s done. “Smile, my boy,” he says with a wide, aggressive smile. “It’s your day.”

Malcolm doesn’t ask what he means. The tux and his choice of words are evidence enough.

His father grasps his arm, and, together, they leave the room and walk down a blood red aisle to where Jack waits, tall and dark and smirking. Martin leads him to his fiance before taking the place of the officiant. 

In the front row, his mother is crying.

Malcolm feels like crying, too.

When Jack kisses him, it’s bruising, possessive, borderline painful. Everyone claps, and Malcolm wakes up screaming.

The second dream is no better. 

He’s in a hospital room. There are flowers and balloons and even a teddy bear, all in anticipation of the birth of his child. He almost enjoys the beginning of this one the first time he dreams it. It’s peaceful. The baby kicks, and in his imagination, he lays a hand on his bump with ease.

Another hand joins his. Jack only has eyes for his stomach. “I have so much to teach him,” he says, proud and cruel. 

The dream ends the same as the first, with Malcolm sweating and crying and forgetting where he is for the split second it takes to recognize his loft. He knows _exactly_ why he’s having these dreams. They won’t stop until he knows for sure that Jack hasn’t gotten his claws into his mother, but the problem is that he doesn’t know when the dinner is. He hasn’t stopped by his childhood home since his mother’s visit for that very reason.

And that’s the worst part. Jack has already tainted his loft through the nightmares. He’s made it a trial just to get into a cab. He’s ruined bars, hotels, and sex with anyone he can’t trust implicitly. Now, he’s destroying the comfort of his childhood home. No matter what his father had done there, Malcolm often still felt at ease there with his mother and sister and all of the good memories he made there. But Jack has been there or _will_ be there. He’ll walk the same halls Malcolm did. He’ll eat in the same room, use the same familiar dining set. 

His presence will stain the place.

Malcolm unlocks his phone and calls his mother.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued immediately from the last chapter!

“Malcolm, dear, what a coincidence! I’m on my way to see you right now.” She’s trying to sound as cheerful as possible, but he can hear the strain in her voice. She must have an idea of why he’s calling.

“I’ll have a cup of coffee ready for you, Mother,” he says, if only because it will limit how long she tiptoes around him in the loft, holding back from asking all of the questions she desperately wants to ask. “We can talk when you get here.” He hangs up.

There are things he has to do before she arrives. Firstly, he’s a sweaty mess, so he hops in the shower. He deftly ignores his stomach while he washes up, because with his nightmare still fresh in his mind, he worries he would feel Jack’s phantom touch if he did. As it is, he feels sick just thinking about that possessive weight.

That odd, gassy sensation happens again.

He closes his eyes and silently apologizes for his hang-ups. 

Once all of the sweat is washed down the drain, he towels himself dry and carefully selects a suit to wear. It has to be one that his mother will approve of. Surely, she’ll be examining him today, looking for any and all signs that he might have another dizzy spell like last week, and he _must_ pass her scrutiny. He can’t handle any baby excitement today. Not after his dream.

He opts for no vest and tie. He already feels constricted, his skin too tight and his lungs too compact. He buttons his suit jacket and heads into the kitchen.

Finally, he begins to make coffee. He scoops some expensive beans into his grinder and grinds them fresh, the smell heavenly and tempting, although he’s gotten used to abstaining. He sets up a pour over to filter into a thermos. If she finishes it while she’s there, he’ll wash it himself. If not, he’ll pick it up later. He’s not sure what this visit will entail, and he wants to keep all of his possibilities open.

She walks in as he’s snacking on an apple.

“Good morning, Mother,” he says between bites. 

“You don’t have to be worried,” she tells him, putting her purse on the bar. “I made a promise to you last week, and I kept it. I won’t be handing any money over to Mr. Jack Lewis or his colleagues.”

“He wasn’t suspicious?” He tosses the core before handing her her coffee.

“Not suspicious, no.” She takes a sip from the thermos. “He clearly didn’t expect my rejection, but he remained _begrudgingly_ professional. Up until then, he was fairly charming.”

He nods. Jack _was_ charming. He’s not surprised he uses that to gather clients, too. “Don’t be surprised if he tries again. I imagine he’s used to getting his way.”

“Will you tell me someday?” She puts her coffee down on the bar, looking lost. “About why he terrifies you? And _don’t_ try to tell me he doesn’t, Malcolm. I saw the look on your face as soon as you saw his photo.”

“Eventually,” he says quietly, because he will have to. He can’t hide his child forever. He doubts he has more than maybe a month left of hiding the bump before it grows too large to be hidden any longer. 

She hesitates but leaves it at that, and he loves her for it. “I’d better not keep Adolpho waiting,” she says, as if she doesn’t pay him extra for all the time he does wait on her. 

\-------------

Not twenty minutes after his mother leaves, his phone rings, the caller ID showing up as his OB’s office. He’s barely noticed the time go by, as stuck in his head as he was. On one hand, it’s good that he was able to stop his mother from throwing her lot in with Jack. On the other, Jack came close, _so_ close to finding Malcolm again, and he’s not sure what would have happened if his mother had sprung the dinner on him with no notice. Would Jack have pretended not to know him? Would he have threatened him to keep him quiet? Or would he have used the situation to get his hands back on Malcolm? He may be awake, but the nightmares are circling through his head.

He answers.

“Is this Malcolm Bright?” the cheery receptionist asks. 

“Yes, this is he.” He knows what this is about, and thankfully, it’s not too daunting. Yet. 

“I’m calling to remind you of your appointment tomorrow at one in the afternoon. Please arrive at least fifteen minutes early so that we can get you signed in.”

It’s not just any appointment. It’s his level two ultrasound. This one will last half an hour to an hour, an anatomical scan that will go into much greater detail than his first sonogram did. They’ll measure everything about him or her. The size of their head, the curve of their spine, their hands and feet… Malcolm’s read blogs from parents who were able to see their baby sucking its thumb. 

As if on cue, he feels that fluttery feeling again. His baby is moving. He closes his eyes and breathes.

Will he be able to look at this ultrasound? The first scan was relatively short, and he was able to resist the entire time, handing off the pictures to Gil to cut off the temptation afterwards. But this time, it will be much longer and much more in depth. 

This scan is also the first good look they’ll have at his baby’s organs. If there are any defects, they might be able to see them. And he wants them to be healthy, and not just because he’s not sure of what he’ll decide. No, he wants this baby, regardless of how they came to be. He’s gotten attached to the swell and the fluttering. He’s looking forward to feeling them move and kick, to being able to hold them. He realizes that now. 

He confirms his appointment and ends the call absently, his entire self overwhelmed at his own admission.

He _wants_ this.

Maybe ten minutes later, Gil arrives. He’s running late, but Malcolm never would have noticed, with the way he’s distracted. Gil hands him a still warm breakfast sandwich — with double bacon — and pulls two bottles of water out of the fridge, one plain and one sparkling. “Kid, you with me?” he says, waving a hand in front of his face.

“Gil?” He fiddles with the paper around the sandwich. 

Gil’s eyes are squinted ever so slightly in worry. “Yeah?” The bottles are forgotten on the bar.

“I want this,” Malcolm says quietly. He barely recognizes his own voice. He feels as if he’s not in his own body, even as he says the words.

Gil looks at him, really looks at him. His eyes take in the planes of his face, the dampness of his hair, the earnest, lost gaze. “The baby?” 

“Yes.” Malcolm attempts a smile. He manages a shaky one, but it falls. “I probably shouldn’t be responsible for children, not with my upbringing, my meds, my weapons —”

“ _Malcolm_ ,” Gil says firmly, gripping his shoulders to catch his attention. “You’ll be a good father, kid. You’re not Martin. You’re not even Jessica. You’re Malcolm.” Gil shakes his head when he opens his mouth to interrupt. “You just told me that you want this baby.”

“Yes, but—”

“You want this kid, and you know what that means?” He smiles softly, crookedly. “You’ll do everything for them. I know you, city boy. You’ll make sure they get the childhood you didn’t.”

“But what if that’s not enough?” His panic is rising, he can feel it. He can’t do anything about it, just let it rise and overtake him.

“Then you’re not alone. I’ll be here. Your mother and sister will be once you tell them. Hell, Dani and even JT will help if you let them.” Gil does the same thing he did before, gently guiding Malcolm’s hand to his chest so that he could feel the rise and fall and match his breathing. And it works again, slowly but surely.

Malcolm leans forward as the pressure in his chest eases. His forehead makes contact with Gil's chest, right next to the hand that’s still there. “Gil?”

“Yeah?”

“Come with me to my next appointment.” He closes his eyes. “Please.”

“Already planned on it.”

\-----------------

The next day, they leave right before lunch. Dani and JT sneak worried looks when they think neither Gil nor Malcolm are looking, but Malcolm tries not to let it bother him. They’re probably coming to the conclusion that he’s dying at this point. He’s got money on Dani asking first. Still, for as anxious as it makes him feel, he can’t do this without Gil. 

They get into his car in silence. Gil turns on the radio, a low hum of classic rock filling the void. He drives them to a hole in the wall restaurant first. It’s an old Filipino place he’s frequented for years, and he’s even taken Malcolm there before, back when Jackie was still alive and the younger man was a boy rather than a man. Not everything there settles well in Malcolm’s stomach, but it’s a place from happier, somewhat less complicated times. 

Besides, the baby has much more varied tastes than their father. 

Gil orders them both pork sisig. He also asks for a side of tocino for Malcolm even though it’s not really on the menu of sides, which gets them a knowing look from the woman behind the counter. She slides their plates over to them as soon as they’re ready. 

“It’ll be a boy,” she tells Malcolm with a warm smile. The small plate she sets next to his sisig is piled high with greasy pieces of salted, caramelized pork. She glances over at Gil and then back at him. “A very _handsome_ boy.” 

Before they can even think to respond, she’s taking someone else’s order. They move their food to one of the standing tables along the wall. 

Malcolm puts a piece of tocino in his mouth so that he doesn’t have to talk, to be the first one to acknowledge what just happened. The sweet, salty flavor hits him immediately. His eyes close and he moans quietly. _This_ is what he wants on his breakfast sandwiches and burgers. The saltiness and greasiness satisfy his cravings for bacon just as well as a thick cut piece from the deli would, but the sweetness is what he’s been missing for months. He opens his eyes to take another bite, only to stop.

Gil is staring at him. He has a plastic spoon in hand, although he’s not actually eating. He coughs when Malcolm notices. “Guess I should have figured the little one would like tocino.”

“I like it, too,” he blurts out, feeling red all over. He’s not sure exactly what kind of face he made while eating, but he has an inkling it was… embarrassing. 

Nodding, Gil looks down and stirs his sisig around, the egg mixing in with the pork, onions, and chiles. “I’ll bring you around for breakfast sometime.” He takes a bite and looks back up. “You can get it with egg and garlic rice.”

Malcolm puts another piece in his mouth, this time forcing himself not to enjoy it so visibly. “I think it’s safe to say the baby would love that.” Especially if the woman behind the counter is there to give him what is _clearly_ a bigger than standard serving of tocino.

They talk about work for the rest of their lunch, Gil averting his eyes every now and then, and Malcolm adjusting his reactions afterwards, embarrassed that he’s being so wanton over bacon, of all things. He finishes all of his food, though, which he can tell makes Gil happy. 

Then they go back to the car and drive to his OB. 

The receptionist signs them in. A nurse calls them back a few minutes later.

When Malcolm sits up on the exam bed, he takes a measured breath. “Gil?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“Can you sit over here?” He fiddles with the buttons on his shirt, eventually opening it up enough for his doctor to perform the ultrasound. 

Gil moves the chair over without a word. He doesn’t speak as Malcolm grabs for his hand, either, just squeezes it and smiles softly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bright,” his OB says as she enters the room. “And you, too, Mr. Arroyo.” She tells them about the scan as she sets up the machine, puts the gel on Malcolm’s stomach, and starts it up. “Most of the time, we find no issues, but you’re not too far along that we can’t prepare if we do find any.”

This time, Malcolm keeps his eyes open. He’s not ready for this. He might never be at this rate. He needs to do it anyway, if only for his baby.

Gil gently strokes his hand with his thumb.

His doctor, thankfully, doesn’t say a word about it. “Your baby looks a little on the small side, but not overly so. We’ll keep an eye on your weight going forward just in case.” She measures everything and anything, idly telling them all about the baby’s organs and limbs. Finally, she asks if they want to know the sex.

“Yes,” Malcolm says, his hand tight in Gil’s. He’s had plenty of dreams about his child. He’s not sure if the feeling he has is just in his head or if he’s known for weeks, and he’d rather confirm it now.

She points to the screen right around the baby’s crotch. “ _That_ , Mr. Bright, tells me you’re having a baby boy.”


	10. Chapter 10

Malcolm lets Gil guide him back to the car. He’s already handed all of the sonograms off to him, just as he did after his last scan. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because the images are seared into his brain, and he doubts he’ll be able to forget them anytime soon. The appointment has made him both relieved and terrified. 

Relieved, because his baby is healthy. Small, but healthy. 

Terrified, because he’s having a boy, just like in his dreams. Will his son look just like he imagines? Like a little Jack? Will he take after his other father? Will he take after _Malcolm’s_ father? He’s already imagining a little boy with Jack’s face and Martin’s curls, and the thought hollows him out. 

“Kid?” Gil’s frowning.

Malcolm gives him a tight smile. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

“You’ll raise him right,” Gil says slowly, consideringly. It’s not terribly hard to guess where his mind went. “Your son will take after you and no one else. He’s _your_ son.”

To Malcolm’s horror, tears well up in his eyes. He wipes them away hastily. 

“Do you mind if I hug you?” Gil looks earnest but hesitant. He doesn’t want to make the tears worse, but he can’t stand to see him cry, either. 

“Please,” Malcolm says hoarsely, wincing at the roughness in his voice. 

So Gil hugs him without a thought, his embrace warm and firm and _loving_ , not overbearing or intrusive.

The baby flutters as they stand there, wrapped in each other.

## 21 weeks

As he applies a light amount of makeup to the bags under his eyes, he realizes that he’s quickly running out of time. It’s not the increased nightmares since his scan. Those he could easily explain away. Everyone already knows he has night terrors, and he wouldn’t have to say much to convince them they’ve just been worse lately. Which isn’t a lie. He’s so tired that he doesn’t even have the energy for yoga most days.

No, the problem is that sometime in the last week, he’s _popped_. His bump is looking less and less like fat under his clothes and more and more like what it actually is. He’s even started getting stretch marks. He rubs lotion into the itchy skin every now and then, but they’re still there, on his stomach and in his mind. 

Soon enough, everyone will know. He’s not gaining fat anywhere else, just that distinctive baby bump, and he knows he should tell the people who matter before they find out for themselves. Especially his mother. He winces as he buttons up his vest. His mother will already be pissed that he’s gotten nearly five months in without a word. 

He texts her, asking if she’ll save him a seat at dinner that night. Of course, she immediately responds in the affirmative. Jessica Whitly always has two spots saved for her children. 

In the kitchen, Gil is already whisking eggs, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows. He whistles along with whatever music is in his head. Bacon is sizzling in the pan. On the counter, the toaster lever is pushed down. He smiles when he catches sight of Malcolm.

He doesn’t even try to return it, conflicted as he is. He smoothes a hand over his bump when he feels those flutters again, stronger than they were a week prior. 

“What’s on your mind?” Gil says as he sets a plate in front of him.

“I can’t keep him a secret anymore.” Malcolm nibbles on a piece of bacon. He’s too stressed and exhausted to muster his usual excitement for it. “I’ve popped.”

There’s a moment of silence as Gil really looks him over and hums thoughtfully. “I guess you have. I didn’t notice.” There’s an odd expression on his face that Malcolm can’t unpack.

“I’ll tell the team tomorrow, if you think I can get away with it.” _Please tell me I can get away with it_ , his eyes say.

Gil lays a hand on his neck and squeezes. “Tomorrow, then.”

\---------------

He spends the entire day paranoid. Have Dani and JT realized? What do they think? He’s gotten close enough to the team as a whole that they would know if he was dating someone seriously. Hell, the last JT knew, he was dating _Eve_. Do the other officers see him and know that he’s pregnant? Can they guess what happened to him like Gil no doubt has? For the first time in months, he feels so _filthy_. Filthy enough that he’d jump in the shower and scrub himself raw if he had the opportunity. 

Right before lunch, Gil pulls him into his office and closes the blinds. 

Malcolm laughs hysterically. “They’re going to think you’re the father,” he says, feeling lightheaded. 

“I don’t care what they think.” Gil rubs a hand across his mouth in exasperation. “And neither should you. Malcolm, they’ve been thinking what they want about me for years, and most of it is bullshit. Whatever they think about you is, too.”

Feeling the panic rise, Malcolm breathes slowly, pushing down another laugh. “I know, Gil. I don’t want to care, but I’m single, pregnant, and —” He grimaces. “ _Broken_. Between my father and Jack—” In an instant, he freezes. He didn’t mean to say that. He didn’t mean to give him a name. 

Gil’s mouth narrows down to a thin line, his fists balling up at his sides. He makes to say something but then shakes his head. “I’m not going to ask you until you’re ready, Malcolm. I want to know so that I can deal with that bastard, but my chief concern is you. You and your son.” His voice is tight, the anger in it barely restrained.

There’s a lump in his throat. It’s heavy and large, blocking his breathing. He tries to swallow, but it does nothing. “I know,” he says again. “I know.” He doesn’t promise to tell Gil anything, because he can’t. He’s well aware that he would never tell anyone about Jack if he had the chance. Not even his son. _Especially_ not his mother, who’s met the man. 

“Stay in here until you feel up to coming back out,” Gil says with an air of finality. “You’re working yourself up into a panic attack out there.” He squeezes Malcolm’s shoulder and leaves to give him, _them_ space. His entire frame is tense as he closes the door behind him.

Malcolm stands there in the middle of Gil’s office and just breathes. He feels unsettled, off balance, his thoughts centered on the dinner ahead of him. His son flutters around again, as if sensing his distress. He rests a hand on his bump and silently apologizes. His shitstorm of a day so far can’t have been good for his baby. Barely thinking about it, he toes off his shoes and lowers himself to the floor to do some basic yoga breathing exercises. He focuses on the way his chest expands with each breath. 

Once he feels a little more solid, he shifts to all fours. He takes a moment to straighten out his back before pushing up with his feet and hands, ending up in downward dog. He doesn’t hold it long today. Shifting his weight back onto his legs, he lets his hands come off the floor but leaves his arms to dangle, his upper body loose limbed. His bump prevents him from leaning over all the way.

He shifts into Warrior One and then, taking another deep breath, into Warrior Two. There’s something peaceful about this, even though his three piece suit is not nearly stretchy enough for it to be comfortable. He’ll have to fix it before he leaves Gil’s office.

Speaking of, the man himself opens the door again, carrying two styrofoam takeout containers and looking marginally more relaxed than he had when he left. He stops after closing the door and stares, a brow arched. “I thought you needed a mat for that.”

Malcolm straightens up and presses his legs together, his hands clasped in front of his chest. “On this floor? I probably should.” He smiles wanly at Gil. “It’s… relaxing. Plus, I don’t want to do anything too strenuous with the baby.” AKA, axe throwing is off the table.

Gil nods absently. “Let’s eat, kid, and then you can do some more yoga until you feel up to coming out.”

\----------

He manages to work some cold cases with the team for the rest of the work day. JT and Dani look at him periodically, and he can feel their eyes on him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He wants, _needs_ to tell his mother first. She would flay him alive if anyone else knew about the baby first. Gil, she’ll understand, even if she’ll no doubt be offended initially. 

The team does need to know, however, and his time to hide is drawing to a close. 

Gil drives him to the old Milton mansion. “Do you need me in there, city boy?” He’s smiling, but his eyes are serious. 

“And subject you to my mother’s glee over the impending birth of her first grandchild?” Malcolm looks at him wryly. “I’ll spare you.” He tentatively lays a hand on top of Gil’s as a way to reassure him he’ll be okay. His mother will be thrilled, that’s a certainty. Whatever else she feels, he’ll deal with.

Gil looks him straight in the eyes and then nods at whatever he sees there. “Call me when you’re done. I’ll drive you back.”

“Thanks, Gil,” he murmurs. He closes the car door with a gentle hand before making his way to the house.

His mother opens the door when he knocks. She’s dressed as gracefully as always, her hair blown dry and her makeup impeccable, but there’s a nervous look behind the mask. “Malcolm, dear! Dinner is nearly done. Join me for a glass of wine, will you?”

He dutifully follows her into the dining room. “About that,” he starts, stopping to clear his throat. “Mother, I won’t be drinking any alcohol tonight.”

Her face falls. “It’s cancer, isn’t it? You’ve been looking exhausted for _months_.” She pours a glass for herself and finishes off half of it in one sip. “I knew something was up. You never invite yourself to dinner.” She downs the rest of her wine, swiftly refilling her glass.

“It’s not cancer.” He swallows. How should he phrase it? He imagines telling her flat out. Would she faint? Or laugh? He’s been honest with her about the likelihood of him giving her children. She’d have no reason to believe him now.

“Oh, please just say it,” she says quickly. “You’re making me worried.” 

He removes his jacket instead of speaking, ignoring the odd look she gives him. Then he unbuttons his vest. His shirt underneath is unmistakably taut around his bump. He bought both when he started showing, but he already needs more clothes. These aren’t maternity suits, after all. 

Jessica tilts her head and opens her mouth. She closes it. She takes a deep sip of wine. “Is that what I think it is?” she says, her voice deep.

“A baby?” he quips. He feels lightheaded. “Yes, Mother.”

Taking a few steps forward, she stops within reaching distance. “Can I…? God, I despised people touching me without asking when I was carrying you and your sister.” 

He nods. It will be the first time someone’s touched the bump other than his doctors. Not even Gil has directly laid a hand on it. His hands are shaking, but he wants her to.

She splays her free hand across his stomach, her wine still loosely clutched in her other. There’s nothing much to feel now. His son’s movements aren’t strong enough to be felt from the outside. And yet, the firm roundness of his stomach is enough to soften her face with a happiness he hasn’t seen in her in years.

“It’s a boy,” he tells her, unwilling to keep that back in the face of her awe. “A grandson.”

“ _Malcolm_.” She pulls her hand back to dab at her tears of joy. “I thought you didn’t want children.”

“He wasn’t planned,” he says shortly. It comes out a bit sharper than he wanted it to.

“Neither was your sister,” she admits. “But don’t you tell her that. Oh! You must be hungry. Let me tell the cook we’re ready to eat.” She leaves the room for a minute. When she comes back, their dinners are at her heels.

Some of the tension he carried eases when he sees what she had them prepare. It’s baked chicken and rice pilaf with broccoli on the side. One of his favorite childhood meals, carefully designed for him to be able to eat without getting sick yet still chock full of protein. Her own plate is full of richer food, salmon and bacon wrapped brussel sprouts, clear evidence that she was fretting over his visit all day. She asked for _both_ of their comfort foods. 

“How far along are you?” she prods. “You’re already showing.”

“Twenty-one weeks this week. I didn’t know until I was fourteen weeks in,” he clarifies so that she doesn’t assume he kept it a secret for longer. Though nearly two months isn’t an insignificant amount of time.

“Twenty-one? Have you had your second trimester ultrasound yet?” She flakes off a bit of salmon and puts it in her mouth. “Nevermind me, of course you have, if you already know the sex.”

He pulls a copy of his sonogram from inside his vest. Gil gave him her copy before they left the precinct. He places it on the table and slides it over to her.

Her fingers trace the shape of his son from crown to toe, the next generation of Milton, Whitly, _Bright_. She huffs a laugh. “He certainly isn’t shy, is he? We were convinced you were going to be a girl.” 

“That’s yours to keep,” he says instead of responding. He hates that this, too, is tainted by Martin. “I have my own copy.”

“And Gil?” She gives him a knowing look, her eyes finally veering away from the picture in front of her. “Malcolm, is he the other father?” Her voice is neutral. 

He chokes on his water. She isn’t the first to assume — he remembers the look the woman at the Filipino restaurant gave them — but it still throws him, confuses him, because why would she think so? “What? No,” he says after he manages to swallow.

His mother sighs in relief. “Good, I was worried I’d have to have a _talk_ with him for knocking you up without having the grace to propose.” She looks disgruntled despite being proved happily wrong. “Can you blame me for assuming? The last two times I’ve been over to your loft, he’s come over for breakfast. And darling? You don’t eat breakfast.”

He half wonders what she would say if she knew Gil comes over for dinner, too. Not to mention their shared lunches during work. The fact that he’s come to every doctor appointment with him, too. Now that he thinks of it, they’ve been oddly domestic for weeks. 

“Malcolm,” she says then, suddenly solemn, her face paling. “Is Jack Lewis the father?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Malcolm's slip of Jack's name to Gil *will* come into play again later


	11. Chapter 11

Suddenly his dinner tastes bland, the rice too gummy and the chicken too dry. He’s always known his mother wasn’t stupid. He was too obvious about Jack, about his silence on his son’s father. It’s no wonder she’s put it together. 

“That _motherfucker_ ,” she thunders, clutching her wine glass too hard. It snaps under her grip, and they both flinch. 

Malcolm stands up and, unfolding his napkin, gently wraps it around her bleeding hand as one of the maids comes in to see what the noise was. He encourages his mother up out of her chair. 

The maid shoots him a grateful look as she carefully sweeps the glass off of the table. 

“He was in my _house_ ,” Jessica hisses. “He was my _guest_.” Her rage falters. “I would have let him handle our money. I would have set you up on a date with him.”

“Mother,” Malcolm says quietly, soothingly, “we need to look at your hand.” He doesn’t want to talk about this. Or think about it. He feels sick, filthy.

She lets him guide her to the closest bathroom, where another maid hands them a first aid kit.

He carefully removes the bloody napkin and, upon seeing that the cuts look relatively minor, rinses them off and disinfects them with some iodine from the box. It takes several bandaids of varying sizes to cover all of the wounds. 

“ _Malcolm_ ,” she murmurs. She looks as lost as he feels. 

“You can’t do anything.” He makes sure he has her gaze. 

“But—”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he says firmly. “Jack Lewis has no idea about my son, and he never will.” He’s not sure what Jack would do if he did find out. If he thought he could get away with it, would he try and sue for custody? Malcolm grits his teeth. At this point, he has nothing to back up the truth. Jack would be able to paint him as a liar easily enough.

She reluctantly promises to keep away from him. “Will you stay? I can have the chef whip us up another meal.”

“I don’t think I can.” He grimaces. “It’s not your fault, Mother. I just need space.” Space to fall apart. If he does so here, she’s going to worry more, become frantic, overwhelm him. He has to leave. 

“Do you want Adolpho to drop you off at the loft?” 

He shakes his head. “Gil said he would pick me up.”

Some of the worry on her face eases. “He’s been good to you, hasn’t he? He already knew.” 

Gently holding her hands, he gives her the best smile he can manage. “Don’t blame yourself. Gil’s had enough training to recognize… this.” He can tell she will no matter what he says.

She waits with him in the living room, quiet but present, until Gil arrives. 

\------------------

As soon as he’s in the car, Malcolm leans on him. “I don’t think I can be alone right now,” he admits. 

Gil nods and pulls out of the driveway. It’s that simple. He takes a different, yet achingly familiar route. They’re on their way to his apartment. He’s lived there for as long as they’ve known each other, first with Jackie and now alone. 

The guest room has unofficially been Malcolm’s for years, though it was originally an office. It’s back to being so, but the bed is still there, just in case Malcolm wants to visit. And he did several times in college. It’s not as comfortable as the loft, of course. He doesn’t _want_ to go to the loft now. He closes his eyes and lets the purr of the car bring him some measure of peace.

\-----------

As expected, his old bed is still in the office. Gil pulls the sheets and blanket off of it to replace them with fresh ones while Malcolm changes.

Into Gil’s clothes. He can’t sleep so comfortably in his suit, though he has done it before, and neither of them thought to go to the loft and get him a change of clothes. They’ll go in the morning before work for a new suit. For tonight, they’ll make due with what they have. Gil is bigger than him, so the clothes are surprisingly comfortable on his gravid frame. They stretch ever so slightly across his bump, hanging off of him everywhere else. They’re soft, too, not from high quality materials but from countless washes and wears. Lastly, they smell undeniably of Gil, of the detergent he’s been using for decades. Malcolm finds himself bringing the collar of the t-shirt up to his nose and taking a deep breath. It’s a scent he associates with safety and warmth.

When Gil comes out into the kitchen, the younger man is standing at the counter sipping a glass of filtered tap water. He hesitates at the entryway. Malcolm has been in this kitchen many, many times, but Gil has never seen him like this — dressed casually, and, cliche enough, barefoot and pregnant. He even has a certain glow to him. 

“What’s on the menu?” Malcolm takes one last sip and sets the rest on the table for later. He’s going for nonchalant, but Gil has known him for too long to be fooled. “I didn’t get a chance to eat earlier.”

Odd, but he won’t argue. “Takeout sound good to you? We can watch some TV while we wait.” Although he hasn’t said a word, Gil has noticed he’s been more accepting of touch lately. At least between the two of them. In fact, Malcolm seeks him out when it really gets bad. The look in his eyes says that he needs comfort now. 

Malcolm agrees easily. He sits cross legged in the middle of the sofa while Gil orders them burgers.

“C’mere, kid,” Gil says when he settles down at the end, lifting his arm in invitation.

Which he gladly takes. He doesn’t even pretend to hesitate. He’s too tired to act like he doesn’t want to be soothed. Without a word, he sinks into Gil’s side, one hand trembling on his bump. 

Gil wraps his arm around him and turns on the TV. Neither of them are paying attention to it. The dinner at the Whitly house hangs in the air, but Gil won’t ask. They sit there, pressed up against each other until the food arrives.

Just like old times, Malcolm opens the right drawers to set the table. He pulls out a second glass and fills it from the pitcher in the fridge. It’s even more comfortable of a routine than at the loft. 

“Kid,” Gil says softly as they finally tuck into their food, “I don’t want to press, but what happened with Jessica? She didn’t look mad.” He knows her well enough to say she looked wistful, though sad, and neither of those accounted for Malcolm’s clingy state. 

It takes a minute before he can answer. The burger is a million times more appetizing than the food at his childhood home was, even before it turned tasteless in his mouth. Plus, here with Gil he doesn’t feel so pressed to keep himself together like a Milton should, and so he’s chewing a rather large bite. He puts his burger down and fiddles with one of the cheap napkins the restaurant shoved in the bag. “She’s thrilled. I think she would have pulled out my baby pictures if I stayed any longer.”

“And?” Gil prods. 

“She asked if you were the father.” Finally, Malcolm meets his gaze. He looks amused, but also confused and off balance. 

It stops Gil short, his breath catching in his throat. He’s thought about it, of course, how could he not after their lunch the week before? He clears his throat. “What did you tell her?” He picks up a fry and eats it.

“I told her you weren’t.” Malcolm sips his water to give himself a second’s reprieve. “You know she would have eviscerated you if I said you were. Well, unless I had a ring to show for it.” _Don’t ask_ , he thinks. _Don’t ask, don’t ask._ He picks up his burger again in the hopes that it acts as a deterrent. 

Gil shakes his head but, thankfully, doesn’t press.

\-----------------

When it gets late enough, Gil steers him into the guest room with a pointed look. He’s already set up Malcolm’s old restraints, left over from his visits during his college years along with a barely used mouth guard. They should still work just fine. “Try and get some sleep, city boy,” he says with a smile.

Malcolm nods as he restrains himself. He knows from experience that Gil is a light sleeper, light enough that pacing around in the living room like the insomniac he is will keep him from staying asleep. So he’ll stay in bed and give it a try, even though he’s certain he’ll wake up from the night terrors at least once. There’s no way Jack will let him sleep after his visit with his mother.

It takes close to two hours for him to nod off. 

He’s back at his childhood home. He walks into the foyer and hangs his coat. There’s no one there waiting for him, but it’s dinner time, and everyone will be in the dining room. His feet take him there automatically, treading that familiar path with ease, and yet he steps into a large reception hall that most definitely does not exist in the Whitly house. There are countless tables full of faces he hasn’t willingly seen in years. Old schoolmates, old family friends, all of the high society regulars, all seated in front of him, staring. He doesn’t see Gil and the team anywhere.

A hand touches his lower back as a mouth ghosts by his ear. “Better late than never,” Jack whispers. “We couldn’t let you birth a bastard, could we?” 

It’s a wedding reception. 

Jack moves him around like a doll, pulling Malcolm’s hands into his own as he sets them up to dance.

Somewhere in the background, a live orchestra begins to play.

Malcolm finds his feet moving in old patterns he learned oh so long ago, when the Whitlys were still invited to parties, were still putting their all into keeping their position in society. His voice is gone. Even if it wasn’t, his mouth refuses to move. He’s a marionette, and Jack has his strings in hand. 

Inside, he’s screaming. He’s thrashing. He’s cursing Jack with all he has. 

His rapist opens his mouth.

“Malcolm, it’s not real.”

The words don’t match.

“ _Malcolm_.”

The hands holding his turn into hands gripping his wrists, holding him down, and tries to scream yet again.

“ _Wake up, kid!_ ” 

He opens his eyes to find Gil. Just like he had so many weeks ago. He spits out his mouth guard and tries to get his breathing under control. 

Gil is watching him, wide awake and worried, from next to the bed. He’s dressed in boxers and a faded t-shirt, and his hair is tousled from sleep. He looks nothing like Jack. 

A sob catches in Malcolm’s throat. He feels like screaming at himself this time, at how utterly weak he feels. It’s been _months_. Logically, he knows that it hasn’t been enough time, but he doesn’t care. How is he going to live any kind of life with Jack’s specter over him?

“Can I touch you, kid?” Gil purposefully keeps his hands at his side, not wanting to startle him.

It sets the tears off. He’s _pathetic_. “Please.” 

Gil releases the cuff closest to him and nudges Malcolm over so that they can both fit in the single bed. He reaches an arm around to get the second cuff, too. He gently tugs him into his embrace, half on his lap, his head buried in Gil’s chest. He holds him tightly, not saying a word.

Which is good, because Malcolm needs to talk. “I was careful. I know not to take an open drink, Gil, I _swear_.” His voice is small. 

Gil’s arms tighten around him. 

“It was ketamine,” he tells him, giggling hysterically. “ _Ketamine_. I couldn’t do anything while he —” He sobs weakly. “And now I’m pregnant. I _want_ this baby, I want my son. I don’t want _Jack’s_ son.”

“He’s yours,” Gil says roughly. “Jack’s not a fucking father, kid. That’s not what being a father means.”

“I keep dreaming about him,” Malcolm continues. He’s seriously warping Gil’s old shirt now, his fingers strained against the worn fabric. “About weddings and our son.”

“ _Your_ son.”

“I don’t want to dream about him.” 

Gil leans down and kisses the crown of his head, holding him closer. “I know, Malcolm.”

“Can you stay? Just tonight.” He swallows. “You feel different than him.”

“Of course. You want your hands cuffed?” Removing one of his hands from the embrace, Gil pulls the blanket over them both. 

“One of them.” Malcolm doesn’t make to move from where he’s curled up against him.

Gil gently cuffs one of his hands, making sure there’s enough slack for them to remain the way they already are. He scoots them both down far enough that they can lay flat on the bed, him on his back, and Malcolm half on top of him. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be right here, kid.”


	12. Chapter 12

There’s a beard against his temple, a strong chest under his hand. Malcolm sighs and leans into the body beneath him. He can feel himself hardening even though the dream hasn’t kicked off yet, but he’s grown so familiar with the gentle man his mind has conjured up for him that he can’t help but respond automatically to him. He idly rocks his hips against a long leg. 

The man stills.

Undeterred, Malcolm kisses his collarbone and hums. He _wants_. Lazy morning sex sounds like the perfect way to sate the urge. 

A hand tries to ease him away. But the man has never rejected him. He’s always been soft and loving and ready to give him _exactly_ what he needs. 

Not even the cruelest of dreams his subconscious has created for him have touched these tender ones. Which means this isn’t a dream. Malcolm opens his eyes, blinking to clear away the haze of sleep. He’s in Gil’s guest room, and the body beneath him is the man himself. He remembers Gil comforting him. He remembers being held as he fell asleep. He’s mortified. There’s no question about it, he’s been humping Gil.

This time, when the hand tries to move him, he goes with it. Gil looks embarrassed, too, a red tinge to his cheeks as he clears his throat. “I’ll go start breakfast, kid. Why don’t you get dressed?” He moves off the bed without waiting for an answer. 

And then Malcolm is alone. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and groans. His dick is still hard. He wills it down, cursing his hormones and ignoring the startling fact that he mixed up Gil and his mystery man. It’s not the time to dwell on it. Getting out of bed, he pulls on the suit he wore the day before and takes his time brushing out invisible wrinkles. 

Gil is standing at the stove, spatula in hand, carefully folding over one large omelet. He’s still dressed in the clothes he slept in. “I don’t have any bacon,” he says over his shoulder apologetically. “I don’t have much of anything here, but there’s eggs and cheese.”

“That’s fine.” Malcolm sets the table. He doesn’t think about how soft Gil looks cooking in his t-shirt and boxers. He ignores how domestic it is, how warm it makes him feel. “I’m sorry. About this morning.”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. It’s just your hormones. It’s common.” He busies himself with slicing the omelet in half and plating each piece up. 

Malcolm bites his lip. It certainly doesn’t look like he’s okay with it, but it’s clear that Gil doesn’t want to talk. Not so soon.

They eat in silence.

## 22 weeks

“Gil,” Malcolm moans as the cock slowly sinks into him. His arms are crossed on the edge of the bar, his head pillowed on them.

When he bottoms out, Gil leans down and kisses his spine. “Tell me if it’s too much.” He pulls back and rocks back in. His hands wander, tracing patterns on his hips and back.

Malcolm whimpers when his cock grazes his prostate. “ _Gil._ ”

“Yeah, city boy?” His voice is a little deeper, a little rougher, but he’s not too worked up yet. “Do you need to move to the bed?”

“No,” he blurts out, looking over his shoulder. “It’s not enough.”

Gil slows to a stop as he weighs his options. “If you lose balance…”

“I’ll let you know before I do. Please.”

Grabbing Malcolm by the hips, Gil chuckles and begins to move again, this time much faster. He’s pushing Malcolm towards the bar with every thrust. 

It takes him all he has to keep from sliding too far forward, their skin clapping, Gil’s tight grip on his hips, the way the heat is building inside him, all of it distracting. But he loves it. He loves Gil.

_He loves Gil._

Malcolm wakes up rutting against the sheets. His cock is still hard, achingly so, but he’s alone. There’s no Gil. There’s no mystery man. He shamefully puts a hand down his boxer briefs and finishes himself off. 

This isn’t the first dream he’s had of Gil since the night he spent at the man’s apartment. Every single one of his dreams about his mystery man have evolved into dreams about him. Sometimes he doesn’t know who it is at first, just that they’re his tender lover. Sometimes he immediately knows who it is next to him, inside of him. Both of them habitually end with him jerking off in his boxer briefs to the thought of Gil. 

It’s been difficult to look him in the eye this week. Or at least it would be if Gil wasn’t avoiding it, too. He still comes over for breakfast and stays for dinner. He still insists on feeding him lunch as well. It’s just not the same. They’re going through the motions, but none of the substance is there anymore.

Malcolm takes a cold shower and dries himself off. He pulls on a pair of socks and pants but not a shirt. Not yet. He grabs a tub of lotion and sits on the edge of the bed. The lotion is cool — and thankfully not greasy — against his skin. He gently rubs it into his bump, making sure to get all of the growing stretch marks and dry, itchy spots. He’s started doing this more and more. Part of it is vanity and comfort. He knows it will help with the marks. His favorite part, however, is the bonding. He can feel his son moving around as he rubs his stomach, and it’s a feeling he’s become addicted to. 

He’s still massaging his bump when the door opens. 

“Morning, kid,” Gil calls out from the kitchen, already pulling out ingredients for breakfast. 

Malcolm pads over to the bar without getting a shirt. Unless he waits for the lotion to absorb a little, his shirt will stick. He perches on a seat. “Good Morning.” 

The usual suspects are there — eggs, bacon, bread, butter. Gil has already removed his jacket and pushed his sleeves up. He turns around and stops. 

“What?” 

Gil shakes his head and averts his eyes. “You planning on going into work like that?” 

His cheeks redden. “I have stretch marks. Lotion helps, but it needs time to sink in.” What Gil must think of him… He humps him one day and then walks around shirtless the next. “I can get a shirt.”

“No,” Gil says abruptly. He turns back to the stove and lays the bacon down in the hot pan. “Don’t worry about it.” 

But Malcolm _will_ worry about it. He holds back a huff. There are more important things he needs to talk about. Mostly, he wants to tell the team. They’ve noticed the distance between him and Gil just as easily as they’ve picked up on something being off about him. They just have the grace to not say anything about it. For now. He’d rather get it out of the way before they do, and his clothes won’t help hide his bump for much longer. 

Gil hums as he flips the bacon and cracks the eggs. It’s likely to fill the empty space between them, but it’s nice. He doesn’t turn around again until the food is ready and he can put the full plates on the bar. 

“I want to tell the team,” Malcolm says bluntly. He picks up a strip of bacon with his hands and takes a bite. It’s his favorite greasy comfort food at this point. 

“When?” Gil chews on some toast, glancing over at the man next to him.

“Today.” He takes another bite. “I feel that waiting any longer is a bad idea. Even JT is looking worried.” He means it in jest, but it’s true. He and JT aren’t as close as he and Dani or he and Edrisa even. For JT to look so outwardly concerned the way he has… it’s telling, and it’s only gotten worse in the last week. He _can’t_ keep putting this off. “I was thinking over lunch.”

Gil nods. “That should work. Do you need me to do anything?”

“I just need you to be there.” Malcolm finishes the strip and idly licks the grease off of his fingers. He didn’t plan on bringing this up, but it would be a wasted opportunity not to. “Look, Gil, I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“You haven’t,” he says immediately, insistently. “Kid, —”

“You don’t look at me anymore.” His breakfast has become unappetizing. He thinks of his son and scoops some egg up onto his toast anyway. “What am I supposed to think?”

“Shit.” Gil puts his fork down and turns in his seat to face Malcolm. “It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.”

“Promise?” He’s the one avoiding looking at Gil now. His eyes burn like they’re about to tear up. He hates it. 

“Yeah, kid, I promise.” 

Malcolm does look now, and he can tell that he's serious. He gives him a relieved smile.

He gets one in return. 

\--------------

The ride to the precinct is more comfortable than it’s been in days. Malcolm lets himself lean on Gil, and Gil doesn’t mind. Whatever was there before, whatever was causing their distance — it’s still there, but it’s a presence, not a growing tension. 

Any worry and anxiety over the coming conversation with the team doesn’t reinforce the divide. It brings them together. That morning, Gil manages to touch him any time he begins to get too antsy. They’re casual, of course, not unlike the kinds of contact he used to have with Malcolm. The only difference is their frequency. It’s noticeable. Neither of them care, not when they’ll be telling the team soon. 

Still, they’re so both keyed up for lunch that they barely manage until then.

“Okay, spill,” Dani orders as JT closes the office door behind him. 

Gil calmly sorts through the bag of subs. He hands one off to Malcolm, who gladly takes the distraction. “Not until Edrisa gets here.”

Two minutes later, she shows up. “Team lunch! This is so exciting.” Her smile falters as she picks up on the tension in the air. “Or not.”

Malcolm shoots her a shaky smile, however. He’s grateful for some positivity now. He reaches for Gil’s hand under the desk. “I have to confess something. I’m pregnant.”

“Oh! Congratulations.” Edrisa beams. “How far along are you? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

He tries to ignore the silence he’s getting from the rest of the team, the looks Dani and JT are exchanging. “Twenty-two weeks this week.”

She looks thoughtful. “Then baby Bright is… about the size of a coconut now.”

He already knew that. One of the websites he frequented lists comparisons, and he soaks them all up. The week before, his son was as big as an endive. He nods at her. “He is.”

“Is it baby Bright?” Dani cuts in. Evidently whatever she and JT were communicating has been resolved. “Or is baby _Arroyo_?”

“You two have been awful close lately,” her partner adds. 

Malcolm flounders. _Again?_ Paired with his dreams, he’s not sure what to think anymore, and so his lips part but nothing comes out.

Gil shifts next to him uncomfortably. He squeezes Malcolm's hand and takes over. “We haven’t discussed anything yet.”

_What?_

But Gil just gives him a look, a promise that they’ll talk later. 

It isn’t quite enough. In fact, if it were anyone else with the exception of maybe his mother or Ainsley asking him, he wouldn’t take it. But this is _Gil_. He trusts him, not just with himself but with his son. He smiles lightly, just a quirk of the lips to show that he isn’t bothered, before removing his hand from the embrace to eat. 

“ _Please_ tell me you have copies of the sonograms” Edrisa says, breaking the lull. She’s practically vibrating. “Your son is going to be _so_ handsome.”

Getting a nod from Malcolm, Gil opens one of his drawers and pulls out the most recent picture to pass over to their excited coroner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys!!! This story has hit 100 kudos, over 25 bookmarks, over 2000 hits, and over 100 comments (half of those are mine, but still!! 50 comments!!) 😭😭😭
> 
> Thank you for enjoying this story as much as I love writing it <3


	13. Chapter 13

They don’t get another minute alone, not at work. As they’re finishing up lunch, a call comes in, and all of them are pulled into a short but intense case involving a home invasion turned murder. There’s not a single moment free for Malcolm to ask Gil to explain himself.

“We can talk at the loft,” Gil says once the day is finally over. His eyes are pleading for him to agree without questioning. 

Malcolm does, if only because his hunger and exhaustion outweigh his confusion and frustration. He has to be shaken awake after they arrive.

“Let’s get some food in you, kid.” Gil smiles, a soft, indulgent thing that makes Malcolm’s chest ache in remembrance of his dreams.

He reminds himself that Gil absolutely does _not_ think of him that way. He yawns as he climbs the steps into the loft. “And then we talk?”

Gil’s pace falters. “Yeah, and then we’ll talk.”

Dinner is a simple affair. Gil throws together a simple sheet pan meal in the time it takes the oven to heat up, and then all they have to do is wait. 

Shedding his jacket and shoes, Malcolm perches on a chair, sleepy and just visibly pregnant. “Maybe we should get it over with now.” He rubs an eye. “Gil, what did you mean back in your office?”

There’s nothing for Gil to fiddle with now that their food is already in the oven. He leans against the counter. “I meant that you don’t have to do this alone.”

“You’ve already made that clear.” Malcolm shakes his head. “You’re stalling. Please just explain.”

It all comes tumbling out. “What if I claimed the baby as my own? If I’m on the birth certificate as the father, it would be another roadblock between you, your son, and that scumbag.”

Malcolm can’t stop the way his brows sink down or the grimace that spreads across his mouth. “Gil, I can’t let you do that.”

“Kid, I’m offering.” He looks so earnest, so determined. He genuinely wants to do this for Malcolm. For Malcolm's son. 

But it feels like pity, and the last thing Malcolm has wanted these last months is pity. Besides, he knows it wouldn’t be good for Gil. “You can’t decide to adopt a child on a whim,” he says, brushing his hair back in an agitated fashion. “What would the rest of the precinct think? The team hasn’t been around as long as some of those cops. Cops that remember me following you around as an actual _child_.”

Gil shakes his head before he finishes his sentence. “I don’t care what they think. You’re far from that kid now, and we know the truth. I’ll gladly tell my superiors —”

“A lie?” The anxiety is building. He can feel it, but he doesn’t want to push the rest of this conversation off. He’s wide awake now. “You and I aren’t a couple. Why risk ruining your reputation over this? And speaking of reputation, what about my mother?”

“I thought you told her. Look, it doesn’t matter. We’ll deal with all of it as it comes,” Gil promises. “Together, if you let me help.”

“She may know the truth, but society won’t. She’s just getting her status back. It’ll just be another stain if her grandson is claimed but not legitimate. If I’m alone, there will be less pressure for a shotgun wedding. I won’t put her in that position.” He knows she’ll love the baby. She already does. He saw the look on her face when she realized, and logically, he knows that her society friends will talk behind her back again no matter what. But the illegitimate child of the cop who arrested her husband? She’ll lose whatever ground he and Ainsley managed to get for her.

“Then we’ll get married,” Gil blurts out, frustrated. He stills as soon as he realizes what he said.

So does Malcolm. 

The oven timer goes off.

“Go get it,” Malcolm says wearily. He rests his elbows on the bar and covers his face with his hands. “I need a minute anyway.” Marriage? His mind spins. To really sell it, they’d have to move in together. They’d have to put on a front, pretend to be in love, act like happy parents to be. 

He can’t do that. He may not want to think about it, but he’s well aware that his relationship with Gil is evolving, at least on his own side. He's become a staple in his dreams now. Dream Gil is his deepest desires for a partner, complete with love for both Malcolm and his son, and while it’s clear that actual, real life Gil does love both of them, it’s not the same kind of love. 

Malcolm wants him to tease him apart slowly. He wants to sleep next to him with a thick arm thrown across his bump. He wants Gil to look at him and feel that heat stir in his gut for Malcolm. _Because_ of Malcolm. 

So no, his baby can’t be an Arroyo. He’d waste away if he had to pretend. 

Gil brings over two plates full of food.

With a quiet thank you, Malcolm digs in. He’s not in the right headspace to finish their discussion now. Or, at the very least, he doubts Gil would take his answer as final until they’ve had time to think about it, to let the anxiety and surprise level out so that they can make a clear decision. It doesn't matter to him. He knows his answer won’t change.

“I’m sorry, Malcolm,” Gil says later, when he’s about to leave. “I didn’t mean to make things more complicated after we just got back on even footing.”

“I know.” Malcolm gives him a weak smile. “We can talk about it tomorrow, if you want.”

They say their goodbyes and part for the night. It’s both a relief and a loss to no longer have Gil in the loft with him, awkward and silent, and he flops on the bed with a frown, thoughts of their discussion floating through his head. Why would Gil want to tie himself down like that? He mourned Jackie, of course, and Malcolm never expected he would jump right back into dating after her death, but unless he was planning on an amicable divorce after a year or so, neither of them would be able to date without raising some brows. Malcolm especially knew he wouldn’t be able to look at anyone else, not with Gil so close. 

And Gil? Forget about wasting away, he knew it would kill him to see Gil date despite their marriage. 

His son shifts around. Malcolm idly traces circles on his bump, hoping his baby could feel his love, could understand why he’s going to turn down the chance to give him a good father.

## 23 weeks

They didn’t talk about it the next day. Or the day after that. Or the rest of the week. Malcolm gets the sense that Gil is letting him lead here after the mess that was his first try, but Malcolm hasn’t wanted to. 

“So,” he says between bites of toast, “about tonight.”

Gil glances over at him. “Didn’t realize we were doing anything tonight.”

“We’re not.” Malcolm sips at his water and keeps his eyes on his plate. “Mother asked me to come over for dinner tonight.” In reality, he called her and told her he and Ainsley would be eating with her. He forgot to tell his sister of her impending aunthood with the stress of the last few weeks he’s had, and he’s hoping their mother’s not so subtle encouragement for Ainsley to follow suit will distract her from the fact that she’ll be the last to know. He doubts it. 

“Do you need me there?” 

Malcolm can still feel his eyes on him. “I think I’ll be fine. She’s the good kind of excited.”

Gil turns back to his food. “I’ll drop you off after work then.” 

He shakes his head. “Mother insists on sending Adolpho.” Another fib. He asked her to send her chauffeur, wanting to avoid another awkward car ride, another silence where he could feel that Gil wanted to talk but wouldn’t broach the subject. 

Gil doesn’t respond. 

“Gil?” Is he being too obvious? He’s _sure_ Gil knows, he’s much too sharp to not realize what Malcolm has been doing, or rather, not doing. Still, he doesn’t want to alienate his biggest support. The man he loves.

“I’m here for whatever you need, kid.” He rests a hand on Malcolm’s neck ever so briefly.

Malcolm has to fight back tears when the touch is gone, internally cursing his hormones. Gil has been around for everything he’s needed lately, but he _can’t_ ask for what he really needs. Not when what he really needs is to be loved. 

\----------------

Work is the same as it’s been for the past week. Dani and JT love to go off together to pick up lunch or coffee or case files, leaving the two men alone, hoping they’ll figure out whatever is pulling them apart again. Even Gil is getting to the end of his rope about it. 

Malcolm, on the other hand, is more frustrated with everything else they’re doing. They’re doing _everything_. Dani swoops in to do any and all lifting, not just the heavy things. JT has brought him two separate tupperware containers of homemade food from Tally and started leaving snacks on his desk.

“Gil feeds me just fine,” Malcolm says when JT takes the clean container and swaps it for another full one. 

“Are you saying no to my wife’s food?” He gives him a flat, unimpressed look. “Tally’s all excited about Baby Bright.”

Malcolm gives in, even though he knows the snacks came from JT himself, because Tally’s food _is_ very good. 

\----------------

It takes all of thirty seconds for his mother to reply that his ride is waiting for him, and he wants to be annoyed at the fact that Adolpho has likely been waiting for a while, but in the end, he’s glad to not have to wait himself.

“Kid,” Gil says quietly before he can go. “You know you can call me anytime, right? Anything you need.”

“I know.” He gets into the car. 

\----------------

He arrives just before Ainsley. 

“Malcolm!” Jessica grins and hugs him tight. She’s glowing with excitement. “How are my favorite men?”

“Tired, but good.” He musters up a smile for her. 

She cradles his face and takes a good, long look. “Are you getting enough sleep, dear?” 

“I’m trying,” he tells her, and it’s the truth. Usually he gets a night or two of decent sleep a week, filled with dreams of his mystery man, of _Gil_ , but those have lost their shine. As soon as he realizes they’re fake, his eyes burn with unshed tears. The emotional weight of it all is exhausting.

“Am I interrupting something?” Ainsley jokes.

“Just a little mother-son bonding while we wait.” She hugs her daughter, too, and directs her to the dining room, Malcolm trailing behind.

No sooner than they sit, the food is brought out to the table. All three plates are the same this time, a simple roast chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans. It’s a simple meal he’s enjoyed in the past, but the smell wafting off of it now makes him realize how hungry he is, how hungry his son is, and he digs in, mannered but quick. Jessica looks delighted.

Ainsley stares. “Are you a foodie now, bro?”

He drags a piece of chicken through the gravy and pops it into his mouth. He knows he has to tell her. It’s the entire reason he orchestrated this dinner. He knows their mother is behind him, too, and will support him through whatever shock and indignation Ainsley will undoubtedly feel. But there’s a part of him that hesitates. Their mother guessed the circumstances almost immediately, and Ainsley isn’t stupid either. He chews slowly, trying to will his stomach to remain calm as his chest tightens. “What can I say? The chef did a wonderful job tonight.” He dabs at his face with his napkin and smiles, strained. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

Jessica nods. “Of course, dear. Take your time. Now, Ainsley, have you made up with that handsome...”

The cold water feels great against his face. He fixes his hair in the mirror and then adjusts his cuffs, anything to give him time. All he can think is _she’ll know, she’ll figure it out_ , and it’s crushing. He focuses on his breathing. 

His phone is heavy in his pocket. _Anything you need_ , Gil said. Anything.

He pulls up his contacts and hits the man’s name before he can think it over.

Gil picks up on the first ring. “Malcolm?” There’s a wariness in his voice, a deep-seated worry. 

He presses a palm firmly to his eye and wills the building tears away. “Hey Gil,” he says shakily. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“Do you need me to pick you up?”

“No, but…” He bites his lip. “Can you join us?” _Join me_. 

“I’m on my way,” Gil promises. “Go sit down and eat for me. I’m sure your girls are wondering where you are.”

They are. His mother’s face relaxes when he appears in the doorway, a stark contrast to Ainsley, who looks him over shrewdly. 

“Okay,” she says. “What’s going on here? This is not a normal family dinner.”

“Are they ever?” Malcolm quips, but then nods. “You’re right, I have something to tell you. It would be best if we wait for Gil first.” 

Jessica rises from her seat. “I’ll let the chef know.”

“You look drained,” Ainsley says once their mother is out of the room. “Mom seems happy, though. Is it good news?”

“I promise I’ll tell you as soon as Gil’s here.” It’s half plea, half admonishment. He usually wouldn’t say anything against his baby sister, but he can’t do this now.

She’s a little startled. “Fine.”

It takes Gil about ten minutes to arrive. In the meantime, Jessica returns and chatters on about this and that, pulling a reluctant and suspicious Ainsley into the conversation. Malcolm stomachs a few more bites of his dinner. 

Their mother insists on answering the door. 

A quiet Gil settles into the seat next to Malcolm. His face is hard to read now, an indicator that he’s thinking about something important. Still, he manages to give Malcolm a quick reassuring glance. He thanks the man who brings him his food but doesn’t touch it.

Across the table, Ainsley is looking at the both of them, eventually shifting her attention solely to her brother. “Gil’s here, so spill.”

Malcolm takes a slow sip of his water. “I’m pregnant, Ains.” There’s more than enough room at the table, so Gil's leg isn’t pressed up against him, but he knows he’s there, quiet but supportive. It helps.

“What?” His sister looks at their mother and then Gil. “You two knew? Well, of course Mother knew, she’s too excited not to.” 

“He wasn’t planned,” Malcolm admits. “Mother hasn’t known for very long either.”

She opens her mouth and then stops. “He? Mal, how far along are you?”

“Twenty-three weeks,” Gil says, opening up his wallet and sliding a small copy of the most recent sonogram over to her. It’s bent from being in with his cash. The top edge of it is frayed, too tall to be fully protected by the leather.

Instead of turning to look at him, which Malcolm sorely wants to do, he turns his attention down to his plate and scoops up some mashed potatoes. He knows that Gil has copies in his desk at the precinct, but his wallet? He needs to table that thought until they can be alone. 

Ainsley doesn’t look at the picture, not right away. “Don’t think I missed you saying that _Mother_ didn’t know until recently. Gil, are you fucking my brother?” 

“ _Ainsley!_ ” Jessica puts down her wine. “Don’t be crass!”

Gil lays a hand on Malcolm’s back as he chokes on his water. “Maybe we should call it a night, kid,” he mutters, the words just for the two of them.

Malcolm nods. “We’re not fucking, Ains,” he says to her before turning to his mother. “I’m sorry for cutting this short.” 

“At least let me send you home with some food for my grandson.” Getting up once again, she leaves the room to call for someone to pack up their dinners.

“Malcolm,” Ainsley starts, remorseful and embarrassed.

He flashes her a small smile. “I know. We can talk tomorrow.” He lets Gil usher him to the car, stopping briefly at the door to accept two full containers of food — much more food than was on their plates. 

The car ride is another quiet one, though this time Malcolm has the bundle of food on his lap to focus on. He did eat a decent amount at dinner, but he’s still a little hungry. And Gil never got a chance to eat. He feels bad for brushing him off lately, too, and so he decides then and there to invite him in to finish their meal. 

“I don’t know why she assumed that you’re the father,” he says as they enter the loft. “I’m sorry for dragging you into that, Gil.” It’s bad enough that he wants to be with him, neither of them need anyone else pointing it out.

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” Gil brushes past him to pull out forks. 

“Why doesn’t it bother you?” Yes, he said he didn’t mind if everyone at the precinct thought they were together, but _Ainsley?_ Gil spent a decent amount of time with both of them after Martin’s arrest, and he knows Ainsley thinks of him as a father figure. Or maybe it’s just his own issues cropping up. Malcolm loves his baby sister. It’s jarring to think that she and their mother automatically looked to Gil as the father, though he’s aware now that he desperately he wishes he was.

“Do I need a reason?” Gil sets the utensils on the bar. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Malcolm shouts, frustrated. 

“Okay,” he says as he walks forward, face as unreadable as it was at dinner. Gil gives him plenty of time to protest as he cups his jaw and leans in to kiss him, slow and loving, like they’ve been kissing for years. He pulls back to breathe. “Is that reason enough?”

“Oh.” His first thought is that real Gil is better at kissing than dream Gil. His second thought is that this _must_ be a dream.

“Yeah,” Gil murmurs. “Oh.”


	14. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter yet - 11,700 words - and it's ALL Gil POV, mostly scenes from previous chapters with a handful of extra ones added in. Enjoy!

## 1 week

Gil waits out by the car. It’s been days since he last called his favorite profiler in, and he knows he isn’t the only one on the team feeling his absence. 

When Malcolm comes out, he looks worse than usual. The lack of a case often wears on him, yes, but now he looks _drained_ , the bags under his eyes more pronounced and his skin paler. 

He smiles at him instead of bringing it up, a hand gravitating towards his neck in an old, familiar way. Gil immediately pulls back when he feels the flinch. “Malcolm?”

“I’m fine. Just a little jumpy today.” 

A lie. They’ve talked about this before, and the knee-jerk disappointment settles heavy in Gil’s stomach before giving way to worry. Malcolm has gotten better with being honest about his health. If he’s lying again… it must be something bad. He’s never gotten that reaction before, not when Malcolm knows he’s there. “Is it the nightmares?” Gil stuffs his hands into his pockets to give him space.

“Sleep has been difficult, to say the least.”

That’s an understatement, he thinks, looking at Malcolm’s face again. He nods and gets in the car. He doesn’t want to press when the kid looks like this. He can only hope Malcolm comes to him eventually. 

Neither of them talk after they’re buckled in. Focused on the road as he is, he doesn’t mind it too much, but it’s odd that Malcolm isn’t pressing him for details on the case. It adds to the off feeling in his gut. Something is _wrong_ with the man next to him.

“I’m not fine,” Malcolm bites out sometime later. “But I’m going to need time, Gil.”

The tiniest bit of tension eases off his shoulders. This, he can work with. He’ll give him the time he needs. He glances over. “Okay, kid. You know I’m here for you, right?”

“I know.” There’s a despondent note in Malcolm’s voice.

He forces himself to look back at the road, to not dwell on it.

## 10 weeks

_I won’t be in until later_ , the text reads. 

But Malcolm is never late to the precinct. Hell, he’d come in early if he could. Gil frowns down at his phone but types out a quick affirmative. He has a feeling he knows exactly what will be keeping him, and yet he knows that Malcolm will pull away even more than he already has the last few months if he meets him at Claremont.

Not too long after, his phone rings instead of chirping. “Hey kid.”

“Hey, Gil could you pick me up?” 

His grip on the phone tightens. He can tell that Malcolm’s anxious. It would be hard to catch if not for the years he’s known him, but Gil knows all too well what it sounds like, and he’s looking for it now. “Sure. Where?”

“Claremont,” Malcolm says sheepishly.

“I’ll be there soon,” he promises. Letting JT and Dani know where he’ll be, he heads out to the car and curses Martin’s lawyer for the millionth time.

## 14 weeks

He starts to worry at thirty minutes in with no text or call. He tries dialling Malcolm and gets the voicemail every time. His texts go unanswered.

At the one hour mark, he’s already getting concerned looks from the team. 

It takes a full hour and a half before he allows himself to call Jessica and ask if they’re having brunch. “Let me check on him,” he says firmly when she insists on going herself. If they have another Junkyard Killer situation on their hands, he’d rather she not get herself kidnapped, too. One Whitly is stressful enough. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

There’s no answer at the loft. The door is still locked, and nothing looks tampered with. Gil’s tempted to leave and check Claremont, but he’s had a key since Malcolm left for his forced vacation and asked him to feed Sunshine, so he makes his way inside. It can’t hurt to look.

He unholsters his gun, ready for anything. Everything looks fine. He puts it away when he gets to the bedroom and finds Malcolm, still cuffed to the bed in his sleep, his chest rising at regular intervals. The sheets are rumpled around him, the blanket half off the mattress. It doesn’t look like a peaceful rest. He looks exhausted.

“Malcolm.”

No response.

“Malcolm.”

Nothing.

“Malcolm, kid, wake up.” Gil reluctantly reaches out to jostle him but stops short when he jerks awake. The flash of terror on his face hurts like hell. His hand drops to his side. “It’s just me — Gil.”

He’s more certain than ever that something is wrong. Malcolm _never_ sleeps late. He never sleeps, period. He’s been so on edge lately, too, and anyone in his space startles him. Gil has known him for long enough to realize that’s odd. Odd for Malcolm, at least.

Not so odd for sexual assault survivors. Weeks have passed since the first flinch he’s noticed, and every single time he sees the kid, his heart feels heavier. Major Crimes doesn’t cross over into sexual crime territory all that often, but Gil wasn’t _always_ in Major Crimes. As a detective in a city, he’s seen his fair share of survivors, been to a handful of classes on the subject as a whole. Malcolm is exhibiting many of the signs he knows to look for and has for over two months. 

He wants to scream, he wants to punch something, he wants to get names and deal with it himself. But none of that is what Malcolm needs. Especially if his sudden need to sleep in or his general state of exhaustion is an indicator of how badly he’s coping on his own. He pushes all of his own feelings down and tells him point blank that he’s taking him to a doctor. 

Malcolm stumbles, and Gil instinctively steadies him, wincing once he realizes what he’s done. Malcolm doesn’t flinch this time, however. 

Gil wishes it made him feel better. 

Turning away, he pulls out some soft, loose clothes for Malcolm to wear and then heads to the kitchen. The state of the fridge is appalling. There’s barely anything there, to start with, and when he checks the dates, most of the contents are days, if not weeks, out of date. Which Malcolm would know if he was actually eating any of it.

“I haven’t been able to keep much down,” Malcolm admits, standing by the bar looking just as tired as he had before getting dressed. 

“Dammit, Bright.” No wonder he’s so pale. Grabbing the kitchen trash can, Gil fills it with all of the spoiled food. “Three quarters of this stuff isn’t even good anymore.” What’s left is a pitiful mix of cheese and condiments. He runs a hand across his face, suddenly tired himself. “Okay, let’s get out of here. I’m taking you to urgent care.” He prays there isn’t a long wait. 

\-------------

But of course there is. When the doctor finally calls for Malcolm, Gil is relieved. 

Malcolm glances at him instead of following. “Can you…” He looks embarrassed and desperate all at once, his eyes panicky.

“Can I what, kid?” Gil does his best to keep calm and not show any of his worry. 

“Can you come in with me?” 

Gil gets up immediately, not giving him time to take it back. Malcolm sure looks like he wants to, like he’s ashamed of needing someone with him, and Gil can’t leave him to stew in that.

He sits in the corner of the exam room. He doesn’t want to take over. He’s just there as support, and so he leaves all of the questions to Malcolm — until the doctor asks about sexual activity. Even on a normal day, he wouldn’t want to put stress on him by being present for this. His suspicions only reinforce his feelings. He opens his mouth to offer to leave, but Malcolm cuts him off with a terse nod. His heart sinks.

“Okay,” the doctor says, “I’ll put in an order for a blood test, but have you tried taking a pregnancy test yet?”

The urge to rage resurfaces. Gil hadn’t considered _pregnancy_. Stress, fear, anxiety — all of them crossed his mind. His fists are clenched in his pockets. 

“There’s no reason to,” Malcolm insists, a few degrees below shouting. 

“Mr. Bright —”

“I’m not pregnant,” he continues. His voice wavers on the last word. 

Gil forcibly relaxes a hand. “Kid,” he murmurs and holds it out. He’s not sure whether he’s relieved or crushed when Malcolm grips it like he’s drowning. 

“If your symptoms started two months ago, then I suspect you are at least three months pregnant,” the doctor says. She shoots Gil a dirty look as if he’s the reason for this mess. As if _he’s_ the one who raped her patient. “We can do an ultrasound now, if you’d like, and I can tell you for sure.”

He ignores her gaze, turning to Malcolm instead, taking in the wet sheen of his eyes and the tightness of his mouth. His hand is trembling in Gil's. Malcolm isn’t in the shape to say yes or no. Gil doesn’t want to take over for him, but it has to be done. They have to know. “I think we’ll do that.”

He rubs his thumb over Malcolm’s hand in a reassuring gesture. “Come back to me, kid.”

“I’m here,” he says quietly. His voice cracks and so does Gil’s heart.

The doctor sets up the ultrasound machine quickly and efficiently. Malcolm shuts his eyes, but Gil pays attention, nervous. 

_Not pregnant_ , he hopes. He knows that Malcolm would make a wonderful father if he ever decided to have kids. _Please say not pregnant_.

She presses the wand into the glob of gel on Malcolm's stomach. “A-ha.”

Gil sees it, too, and he freezes as his mind processes it. The image on the machine is most definitely that of a baby. He can see the shape of the head, the curve of the developing body. He takes a quiet deep breath and resumes the soothing movement of his thumb. He can throw things later. Now, he has to be calm for Malcolm. 

“Based on the measurements, I’d say you’re about —”

“Fourteen weeks,” Malcolm snaps. “The last time I had sex was fourteen weeks ago.” He’s shaking and horribly pale. 

The doctor prattles on, and her lack of empathy pisses Gil off, but he doesn’t say a word, merely accepts the list of healthy foods she prints off and nods when she mentions making an appointment with an OB. He can tell Malcolm isn’t processing a word she’s saying. 

He squeezes the kid's hand to catch his attention. “Let’s head out.”

They both need to get out of that office. 

\-----------

He thinks about that image the whole way back to the loft. He thinks about the way the baby looked, curled up in Malcolm’s stomach. He thinks about the way Malcolm screwed his eyes shut and nearly took off his hand. He reluctantly admits to himself that he's grateful Malcolm is silent in the car, because he needs time to absorb all of this, too. 

The one thing he knows for sure as he turns the engine off is that Malcolm’s health is tied to the health of the baby right now. Even if he decides not to keep them, he needs to eat better. 

Once in the loft, he sits down and pulls him over to talk food. The list the doctor gave him was a fairly basic list, and most of what it amounts to is that Malcolm needs to eat healthily. With his permission, he adds a suitable amount of raw chicken, beef, and turkey to their shopping list. Cheese goes on, too, because he knows Malcolm likes his cheese. Low sugar yogurts and fruits are next. They make for easy snacks, and both of them know Malcolm rarely eats full meals. Vegetables come after that, plenty of vegetables. Lastly, Gil adds some dry and canned goods to the list, things like pasta and rice and beans that will round out his diet. It’s a hefty amount of food, but the kitchen is nearly empty.

“I don’t need this much,” Malcolm insists as the list grows and grows.

“Kid, trust me,” Gil says every time. He feels mildly bad for pulling the trust card. Especially when Malcolm gives in. When they’re done, he gets them both a water from the fridge. He’s not quite sure what to do after that, just that he shouldn’t leave. Not with the look in Malcolm's eyes.

“I know you must have questions,” Malcolm says. 

“I do, but I’m not going to press.” Of course Gil has questions. He has a million and one. Why didn’t Malcolm say anything? How did he miss the earlier signs of his pregnancy? What’s the fucker’s name? Etc., etc. And yet every single one of them is the wrong question. They’d only serve to push him away, convince him that keeping everything bottled up is the right way to go about things, because anyone he lets in will only bombard him with insensitive questions. “As long as you know that I’m here for you, Malcolm, I’ll let you come to me.” He means it. He won’t ask. Malcolm could decide to never tell him, and Gil still wouldn’t, no matter how much he desperately wants to. He does his best to assure the kid of that. 

As soon as he’s sure Malcolm is asleep, he grits his teeth and clenches his fists hard enough to feel the bite of his nonexistent nails. He won’t chance him waking up to an empty loft, but the urge to leave and scream himself hoarse in the car is strong. 

\----------------

## 3 days later

In the privacy of his office, Gil lets himself take a longer look at the sonograms in his hand. He traces the shape of the baby’s head, lingering where the doctor caught them sucking their thumb, and wonders if he’ll ever get to meet them. Days ago, he watched as the denial broke, as Malcolm seized up in agony over the mere thought of carrying this child. And yet. 

( _Is… the baby healthy?_ Malcolm looked so relieved to get a yes in return.)

Gil silently promises that he’ll support him no matter what he chooses to do. He opens his desk drawer and tucks all three copies in the small album he keeps there, filled with pictures of Jackie and the Whitlys. It’s not unusual for him to take it out on the rougher days, when he needs to be reminded that the world isn’t a complete pile of shit. 

He has pictures of everything. The first few date back from when he and Jackie first started dating. Their wedding pictures are in there, snapshots of their first apartment, blurry photos of her dancing in the kitchen. Once he met Malcolm, the amount of pictures doubled. There are rare glimpses of the boy’s smile and his school photos. His graduation photos, with a grinning Malcolm surrounded by him, his wife, Jessica, and Ainsley are some of his favorites. The photos of the kid taper off after that, though he does have a few from Malcolm’s college years. The sonograms fit in at the end, after a photo from a team dinner, all of them slightly rosy from too much beer. 

They’ll be safe there.

## 18 weeks

When Gil enters the loft that morning, he finds Malcolm doing yoga. Specifically, he finds Malcolm on all fours, head arched up and lower back dipped down. He’s known about the yoga for years. He’s never seen it, however, especially not like this, and the image hits him like a train.

Even in loose clothes, Malcolm is lean and beautiful, the curve of his spine soft and relaxed, his hair down and his whole body glowing with the pregnancy only Gil knows about. 

He resolutely ignores the heat that sparks in his gut. “...you okay, kid?”

“It’s yoga.” Malcolm shifts, arching his back up and letting his head drop, completely oblivious to the way Gil swallows. He stands and stretches lightly, his shirt lifting to reveal a thin strip of skin. “It was recommended by quite a few pregnancy blogs.”

This time, it’s the words that strike him mute. He knows that Malcolm values information, that looking up as much information as possible about his pregnancy and what he could experience was to be expected, but it still feels like a stark contrast to the man who couldn’t bear to look at his ultrasound weeks prior. A different kind of warmth kindles in his chest as he realizes that some part of Malcolm’s pain is easing. He smiles hesitantly, not wanting to assume anything. “Have you made your decision then?”

“I’m not sure. I’m just… covering my bases,” he replies. He’s not looking at Gil, his shoulders tense with indecision. “If I go through with this, I don’t want this child to start with disadvantages because of how I took care of myself while carrying them.”

“You know you don’t have to, right?” His heart aches with the thought that Malcolm is already putting this baby before himself. “No one will judge you if you can’t.” 

The look the kid gives him in return is incredulous. “My mother might. Society _will_.”

It’s not the first time Gil has cursed Malcolm’s upbringing, and it won’t be the last. Between Jessica and Martin, he was doomed to be scrutinized from the very start. “Well, _I_ won’t. If you want this baby, I will be right there with you, supporting you. If you don’t, none of that will change.” And it won’t. Truthfully, Gil is already falling in love with Baby Bright by virtue of the fact that they _are_ Baby Bright, but his chief concern is still and always will be Malcolm.

“I know. I’m not sure what I want yet, Gil.” His voice cracks, and Gil finds he can no longer resist the urge to wrap a comforting arm around his shoulders. Malcolm leans into him. 

“And that’s fine, too.” He can sense that Malcolm is on an edge right now, that pushing him too far will cause him to break down, and so he shifts gears. “I’m thinking breakfast sandwiches today, what about you?” 

“With bacon?” He gives him those pleading eyes, the ones that Gil has never been able to say no to. 

Gil grins at his excitement. He’s never known Malcolm to eat bacon, of all things, but it’s a good sign that he’s hungry, that he wants to take care of himself. Besides, Gil could go for some bacon himself. “Sounds good to me, city boy. C’mon, let’s go hit the bodega.”

## 19 weeks

He’s had two distinct reoccuring dreams this past week. 

The first wakes him up suddenly, his sheets damp with sweat and tangled around him, Malcolm’s name a shout in the back of his throat. It takes him an agonizingly long minute to remember that the kid is still alive. Malcolm may be reckless, but he’s quick and smart, and he took down their killer without losing his life, unlike the man in his dream. That one Gil watches bleed to death on those nights, his own legs frozen in place as the scalpel drags across a pale throat.

He always leaves his place early after those, unwilling to spend any more time alone in the house than he has to, not when the sight of the kid, tired but oh so alive, soothes the pain he wakes up with. He never wants to see Malcolm that close to dying again. 

The second is more pleasant but just as mind bending. Malcolm’s filthy moans fill the car as Gil tries to drive to the scene. He can see what the kid is doing in the seat next to him, just as he had when it actually happened, and his heart races as those pink lips wrap around greasy finger after greasy finger, sucking all of the bacon fat clean off. His eyes are half lidded, his mouth shiny, his face happily dazed. Instead of powering on to the scene, Gil’s dream diverges as he pulls over to the first empty space he can find.

Malcolm looks at him confused. His blue eyes are still hazy with pleasure. “Gil? Are you feeling okay?”

“I have something else you can suck on,” he says roughly, unbuckling his seat belt and unzipping his pants. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Malcolm says. He licks his lips and hits the latch for his own seat belt. Putting his hands over Gil’s, he guides them away so that he can reach through his tented boxers and pull out the throbbing cock himself. Malcolm shifts and bends and _licks_. A breathy sigh escapes him before he goes down and licks a stripe up Gil from root to head. 

Gil threads his fingers through short brown hair and groans with each wet swipe of his tongue, sometimes kitten licks and sometimes long continuous lines. He’s nearly at the point of pulling Malcolm's head down onto him when the tip is encased in his mouth, shiny lips stretched as he sucks. “Fuck, kid.”

Breathing in, Malcolm sinks lower, his mouth hot and his throat clingy. It’s a process. He moves as slow as possible to let himself adjust until Gil’s pubic hair is tickling his face, and then he pulls back, opening his mouth and letting the thick head rest on his tongue. He breathes for a moment, bracing himself awkwardly in the car. 

When the wet heat encases him again, Gil’s hips jerk, mashing Malcolm’s face against his groin. He tries to pull back.

Malcolm hums and resists. He begins a rhythm of his own, sinking down and pulling back, working his tongue as much as he can, his eyes watering every time the head pops into his throat. 

“Kid,” Gil warns, one hand resting on Malcolm’s head, the other clenched around the top of the passenger seat, “I’m close.”

But Malcolm doubles his efforts.

“ _Goddamnit!_ ” Gil’s toes curl in his shoes, and he’s almost there, almost ready to shoot right down his throat.

Smoothly pulling back, Malcolm once again rests the tip of his cock on his tongue, but instead of taking a breather and going back in, he jerks him hard and fast until Gil’s filling up his mouth with jet after jet, working every last drop out of him like he’s dying for it. When he finally lets go of his cock, there’s a pool of come in his open mouth. He holds it like that for Gil to see before closing and swallowing. “Thanks, Daddy,” he murmurs, sitting up and patting his stomach. 

Those dreams are the first wet dreams he’s had in ages. As soon as reality sets in, he hauls himself out of bed and shucks his sticky boxers in shame. He cleans up with a cold shower, trying not to think about walking in on Malcolm doing yoga again. 

That particular morning, he’s running a little late because of it. He throws on the first clothes he grabs and goes out to start the car. The traffic on the ride over is as bad as usual, and he’s fully prepared to use it as his excuse when he knocks and then reaches for his key.

The door opens before he can stick it in the lock. “Jessica,” he says, his mouth working before he really processes that it’s her. The shame rises again, almost as if she could tell what he was dreaming about not an hour before, and he fights to keep his face neutral.

“I’m on my way out. Be a dear and make sure he doesn’t do anything too strenuous today, will you?” She’s going for a normal tone, but he’s known her long enough to tell how worried she is. Her glance back at Malcolm reinforces it. “He was looking a little peaky earlier.”

Sitting on the couch, eyes closed, is Malcolm. He’s always been a pale person, always needed plenty of sunscreen in the summers to prevent burning. Now, however, he’s _too_ pale. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced than ever, and his jaw looks tense even in his relaxed state. “Hey kid,” Gil murmurs as he sits on the couch next to him. 

Malcolm immediately leans into him, the slight weight of his body pressing down on the older man’s side as he makes a space for himself. “Gil,” he says, and it’s a pitiful thing. 

Gil pulls him closer, pressing the kid more firmly into him in an effort to provide as much comfort as possible. He half wishes he still knew where Malcolm's old weighted blanket was. He only hopes he’s enough comfort on his own. “I’m listening, Malcolm.”

“It’s him,” he mutters into Gil’s collar bone, slightly muffled by his sweater. “I didn’t think I’d have to see him so soon. I didn’t. I didn’t _think_.”

Running a soothing hand up and down Malcolm’s side, Gil keeps his body as relaxed as possible. There’s only one him this could be. He makes a mental note to try and speak with Jessica to find out how this happened. The same murderous rage he felt upon realizing what happened to Malcolm in the first place simmers in the back of his head. He lets the kid talk.

“I can’t, Gil. He can’t know. I won’t _let_ him know about us.” He’s rambling, growing frantic.

“Hey,” Gil says, trying to snap him out of it. With the way they’re sitting, he can feel all of the shaking, all of the panic coursing through Malcolm’s body. He grabs the the kid's hand and presses it flat against his own chest. “Breathe with me, city boy. In, out. In, out.” He takes the deepest breath and lets it all out, repeating the process over and over again. “I’ve got you. C’mon.” 

They breathe in unison for a while, pressed up against each other, touching and being touched. Physically feeling Malcolm being alive is a balm to his soul after the week he’s had. Warm, undeniable proof is leaning against him. It’s the most intimate experience Gil has had since Jackie passed, and he suspects it’s been much longer for Malcolm.

## 20 weeks

He’s running late, again, so he grabs two sandwiches at a bodega along the way, asking for extra bacon on Malcolm’s on a whim. It’ll be more than worth it to see him light up. Stuffing a tip in the jar, he gets back in the car and drives to the loft with both sandwiches carefully tucked in the glove compartment. 

The time there’s no Jessica to startle him. He finds Malcolm already at the bar, far off in his thoughts if his expression is anything to go by. He’d be concerned, except there’s something so... peaceful about him. Something Gil hasn’t seen in a long time. He feels bad about pulling him out of it, but he’d rather Malcolm eat while his sandwich is still hot. “Kid, you with me?”

“Gil?” He says, tugging at the paper around his sandwich as he realizes what he’s holding. He looks lost. His eyes are still clouded with whatever is on his mind, and his voice is small.

“Yeah?” Gil doesn’t want to disrupt whatever this moment has become, but he’s on edge with what he’s seeing now. After the incident the week before with Jessica, he’s been waiting for something else to break, well aware that Malcolm wasn’t talking to his therapist about any of this. 

“I want this.”

Gil looks him over, takes in the expression on his face. He knows what Malcolm is referring to, but he wants to be sure. “The baby?” He thinks back to the black and white image in his desk, the growing shape of Baby Bright, and the way it made him feel. If Malcolm truly wants this...

“Yes.” The kid’s smile isn’t terribly convincing. It's a fragile little thing. The doubt sets in hard, just as it always does with him. “I probably shouldn’t be responsible for children, not with my upbringing, my meds, my weapons —”

“ _Malcolm_ ,” Gil interrupts. He puts his hands on his shoulders, grounding them both. “You’ll be a good father, kid. You’re not Martin. You’re not even Jessica. You’re Malcolm.” None of it is a lie. He’ll never forget his brief encounter with Martin before Malcolm appeared, nor the way he behaved in court. That sick manipulative charm wasn’t passed on or taught. The charm Malcolm has is more influenced by his childhood in wealthy circles, more like Jessica’s but without the zeal she wields in the face of society’s disapproval. Her son is softer than her in some ways, yet just as self-deprecating. Malcolm won’t be the same parent his own were. “You just told me that you want this baby.”

“Yes, but—”

“You want this kid, and you know what that means?” He smiles, thinking of all the things Baby Bright will have growing up. He pictures the elaborate toys, the countless clothes, the gourmet baby food. Most of all, he thinks of how Malcolm will throw himself into raising them. Gil knows he’ll be reluctant to use nannies, to ship them off to private school. He’ll want to give them all of the comfort and happiness he missed out on. “You’ll do everything for them. I know you, city boy. You’ll make sure they get the childhood you didn’t.”

Malcolm looks at him, clearly agitated. “But what if that’s not enough?”

“Then you’re not alone. I’ll be here. Your mother and sister will be once you tell them. Hell, Dani and even JT will help if you let them.” Gil brings Malcolm’s hand to his chest again, breathing with him, assured of everything he said. There’s a wide support system waiting for him if he chooses to look, with Gil right at the center and willing to help no matter what. He recognizes, deep down, that he wants to help more, to stand beside the kid and be a partner, not just a pillar.

Malcolm presses his forehead to Gil’s chest, right next to their joined hands. “Gil?”

He tries to keep his breathing even. “Yeah?”

“Come with me to my next appointment. Please.”

Gil smiles. “Already planned on it.”

\--------------

He takes Malcolm to one of his old favorites the next day. The cooking there is the closest he’s come to his mother’s, and he still eats there on the holidays and anniversaries he can’t spend with his widespread family. He orders them both sisig, a classic that reminds him of nights spent mincing onion and garlic while his father chopped the pig ears and belly. It’s not a dish he would usually suggest for Malcolm, but he’s noticed he's been craving heartier, saltier foods lately. 

The woman behind the counter asks him if that’s all they want.

“Actually,” Gil says, thinking of all the bacon Malcolm’s been eating and resolutely _not_ thinking about the way he’s been eating it, “can we get some tocino on the side?” 

She glances at Malcolm, close enough to his side to brush arms, her eyes flickering down to his stomach as she nods and smiles knowingly. “It won’t take long,” she promises. A few more customers order in the meantime. Eventually, she pops over to the end of the counter where they’re waiting and slides over two sizzling orders of sisig and a small plate of tocino. “It’ll be a boy,” she says, looking at Malcolm. She glances at Gil, who can’t help but smile at the old myth. “A very _handsome_ boy.” 

Gil moves their food over to a standing table on autopilot. He… doesn’t mind being mistaken for the baby’s father, but he’s not in the place to process it yet. He shoves away the thoughts as they crop up, ignoring in particular the image of Malcolm cradling a tan baby with blue eyes. 

Across the table, Malcolm spears a piece of tocino, wraps his lips around the fork, and moans, his eyes sliding shut. 

Gil lowers his spoon, still full of rice. The sound is bad enough, but combined with the image and proximity, it travels right to his dick, a molten heat zinging through him. He swallows thickly. When he looks around to see if anyone else heard that, he gets a wink from the woman who served them. 

Chewing slowly, Malcolm continues to make soft little noises until he’s done. He opens his eyes then, and moves to take another piece. Until he sees Gil. His pale cheeks flush. 

Gil coughs, embarrassed at being caught looking. “Guess I should have figured the little one would like tocino.” That Malcolm would, the caramelized sweetness appealing to the kid’s infamous sweet tooth. 

“I like it, too,” Malcolm offers, breaking up the awkward moment. 

Gil nods but diverts his gaze all the same, focusing on stirring his sisig around while it’s still hot, mixing the egg in with the pork, onions, and chilies the way his parents taught him to. “I’ll bring you around for breakfast sometime.” If he can survive _this_ visit without embarrassing himself even more. He’s glad the table is hiding his erection now. Getting out without it being noticed, on the other hand, might be difficult. “You can get it with egg and garlic rice.”

Malcolm puts another piece in his mouth. This time, his moan is muffled.

Gil’s not sure that’s any better. He takes a bite of his own meal to occupy himself. 

“I think it’s safe to say the baby would love that,” Malcolm says, looking blissful from the taste in his mouth. Another moment of silence. “How bored do you think Dani and JT are right now?”

“Hopefully very.” Gil eases up at the reprieve, and so they talk about work for the rest of their meal, purposefully avoiding thinking about any more muffled moans or the way he focuses on his food more than on Malcolm’s face. 

\--------------

The surface level conversation lasts until they’re in the exam room, Malcolm hunched over at the end of the bed. He takes a visible grounding breath. “Gil?”

He resists the temptation to move over and stand by him. “Yeah, kid?” 

“Can you sit over here?” He’s not looking at Gil, fiddling with his shirt instead, his fingers clumsily working the buttons free.

Gil picks up the extra chair and sets it down right next to the exam bed. When Malcolm reaches out, he takes his hand, too, ready to do whatever he can to quell the anxiety radiating off of the kid. 

The door opens, Malcolm’s OB coming in after a polite knock. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bright. And you, too, Mr. Arroyo.” 

Gil listens raptly as she describes the process. He’s done some of his own research, but he wants to know as much as possible in case Malcolm can’t look again this time. That way, if he ever does want to know, he won’t be in the dark. Privately, he once again curses the fucker who put the kid in this situation. These scans should be a happier occasion. 

But Malcolm doesn’t close his eyes this time. 

Feeling a wave of affection for him, for how much love he’s already giving his child, for how strong he is, Gil gently strokes his hand with his thumb, soothing him. He can’t imagine how hard it is. He wishes Malcolm didn’t know, either. 

“Would you be interested in knowing the sex?” the doctor asks eventually.

“Yes.” Malcolm squeezes Gil’s hand, his knuckles going white.

“That, Mr. Bright,” she says, pointing at the picture, “tells me you’re having a baby boy.” 

And Gil can see him — a little boy with Malcolm’s eyes, Malcolm’s hair, maybe a slightly different face, but the same curiosity, the same empathy. Malcolm will dote on him, too, encourage him and love him. And so will Gil. Baby Bright suddenly seems more real than ever.

When they hug by the car, he can feel the swell between them.

## 21 weeks

He’s in the kitchen, whisking eggs along to the radio, the bacon already rendering and crisping up in the pan, the toast already in the toaster. He smiles when he sees Malcolm run a hand over his bump. It’s a normal morning.

Until the younger man says those two words. “I’ve popped.” He looks disgruntled as he says it, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced, but Gil doesn’t see any of that.

He looks him up and down. He _has_ popped. The soft curve he was growing before is defined now, reading less like fat and more like baby, and even though he’s exhausted, his skin is dewy, his hair a touch longer and thicker. Gil stills as he takes in the view. 

Malcolm is now undeniably pregnant, at least to someone who knows what to look for, and he’s gorgeous. 

Gil wants to tell him that, wants to coax a smile out of him, wants to kiss him. Instead, he does his best to be a reassuring presence. 

\-------------------

Evidently, it’s not enough, because the longer they’re at the precinct, the more anxious Malcolm is, getting looks from nearly everyone around them. Gil hopes it can hold out until lunch, until he can pull him aside without drawing too much attention to them, but in the end, he brings him into his office before then. 

Malcolm laughs, panicked, and looks up at Gil. “They’re going to think you’re the father.”

“I don’t care what they think.” He doesn’t. If he did, he would have quit years ago when the really nasty remarks about his promotion started or later as the sorest officers took to snickering about how often Malcolm was at the precinct with him. They’d get to that conclusion regardless of Gil pulling him aside. “And neither should you. Malcolm, they’ve been thinking what they want about me for years, and most of it is bullshit. Whatever they think about you is, too.”

“I know, Gil. I don’t want to care, but I’m single, pregnant, and —” He hesitates. “ _Broken_. Between my father and Jack—” He freezes, wide eyes trained on Gil. 

Gil wishes he hadn’t stopped. His first instinct is to ask, to demand the fucker’s last name. He still doesn’t know what really happened that night, but he does know that Malcolm is observant and good at reading people. For that man — for _Jack_ to have fooled him, he must really be a piece of work. Gil’s certain it wasn’t his first assault, either. He shuts his mouth, however, not wanting to upset the already distraught Malcolm in front of him. It takes a moment to compose himself enough to speak at a normal level. “I’m not going to ask you until you’re ready, Malcolm. I want to know so that I can deal with that bastard, but my chief concern is you. You and your son.” 

“I know,” the kid says raggedly. “I know.”

Gil wants to stay. He should stay, at least until Malcolm is on more of an even keel, but his rage would only hinder the process. “Stay in here until you feel up to coming back out,” Gil decides. “You’re working yourself up into a panic attack out there.” Closing the door behind him, he nods at JT and Dani to let them know that everything is okay. 

“We were thinking you should be on lunch duty today,” Dani says upfront. “Get out of the precinct for a while and cool off. We got Bright’s back.” Her expression brooks no argument.

“I’m in the mood for tacos,” JT offers, looking at him expectantly.

Gil sighs and shrugs on his coat. There’s usually a taco truck a few blocks south, and the walk might do him some good. He practically stalks out of the precinct, his stride firm and quick, the anger fueling him. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. There are likely too many Jacks to sort through in the city, not that he knows anything of what the guy looks like, but he has the strong urge to find him and strangle him for the damage he’s done, physically and emotionally. The most pissed off part of him acknowledges that he knows how to get away with it, too. 

The truck is busy, a full line of hungry people waiting impatiently to get their food before their lunch break ends. 

Gil joins the back of the line. He orders and pulls out his wallet to pay. Some of the anger drains out of him as he sees the ultrasound photo he stashed in there a few days prior. He had a sheet of wallet sized copies printed as soon as Malcolm decided to go forward with his pregnancy, and the black and white image soothes him a touch. He walks away with several styrofoam containers of freshly made tacos, his pace less hurried than it was on the way there. He isn’t calm. He’s just not as angry. 

“No one’s gone in or left,” JT tells him as he accepts his lunch. 

When he enters his office, the first thing he sees is Malcolm stretched out in his suit with socks but no shoes. One of his legs is bent, the other a straight line behind him, and both of his arms are out parallel to the floor, matching the direction of his legs, palms down. Whatever pose he’s in isn’t kind to his suit. It’s stretched across his frame, highlighting the swell of his stomach. He’s _distracting_. 

Gil closes the door behind him. “I thought you needed a mat for that.” He averts his eyes as he takes a seat, the desk hiding how affected he is.

Malcolm eases out of the pose until he’s standing straight with his legs tight together and his clasped hands level with his heart. “On this floor? I probably should. It’s… relaxing. Plus, I don’t want to do anything too strenuous with the baby.” 

Gil nods absently. It’s for the best that he picked up lunch. He doesn’t — _does_ — want to know what other poses Malcolm was working himself into while he was gone. “Let’s eat, kid, and then you can do some more yoga until you feel up to coming out.”

\-----------------

Halfway to his place, he realizes what he forgot. Malcolm doesn’t have any extra clothes with him. It would be a hassle to turn around now, and he gets the feeling that Malcolm wouldn’t want to anyway. 

So he gives the kid some of his own clothes — an old, faded Yankees shirt and a pair of sweats — to change into while he switches out the musty sheets for a fresh pair. 

The sight he comes back to is… hell on his restraint. He knows Malcolm might not be ready for a relationship for some time, he knows that he might never be ready or _want_ for a relationship with Gil of all people. And Gil has no intention of pressing him before he’s ready, but he has to stop and stare. His shirt, which would have been long on Malcolm otherwise, is stretched across his stomach even as the sleeves hang off his biceps and the collar gapes slightly. The sweats are tied to fit with the cuffs rolled up to reveal Malcolm’s bare feet, the legs baggy. 

He’s barefoot, pregnant, and draped in Gil’s clothes. 

Gil barely manages to offer up takeout, his concern over the kid having not eaten at his mother’s taking precedent. He orders burgers and silently berates himself as he adds bacon to Malcolm’s. He’s becoming a masochist. 

Joining him on the couch, he lifts an arm up. “C’mere, kid.” He wraps it around him, encouraging him to lean into the embrace. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Malcolm rest a hand on his bump. _Definitely_ a masochist.

It’s both a relief and a disappointment when the food arrives. He takes the time to ask about Jessica’s reaction. When he arrived at the Whitly house, she hadn’t looked mad, and yet Malcolm was a wreck. 

Malcolm meanders around the real question, his eyes on his burger. Every now and then he stifles a happy groan when he hits bacon.

“And?” Gil prompts.

“She asked if you were the father.” The kid finally meets his gaze. He doesn’t seem too disturbed, just confused. Confused and looking for something. 

The offer to be is on the tip of his tongue. He wants to stand beside Malcolm and his son, and maybe Jessica picked up on that. It’s a wonder she didn’t interrogate him first. He clears his throat and idly picks up a fry. “What did you tell her?” 

“I told her you weren’t.” 

Gil eats another fry to cover up the pang of loss, sadness, something he feels.

“You know she would have eviscerated you if I said you were,” Malcolm continues. “Well, unless I had a ring to show for it.” He picks up his burger again and closes his eyes when he takes a bite.

_It’s just a joke_ , Gil tells himself. _Just a joke._ He shakes his head. 

\------------

He falls into his own bed, glad for the reprieve even though he’s sure he’s going to have dreams of Malcolm tonight. 

He does. It starts with the kid in his kitchen, wearing the same clothes Gil gave him earlier that evening. He’s just as gorgeous, too, but this time he smiles, his face lighting up without any of the shadows he’s carried since Jack. 

Gil presses him up against the counter and leans down for a kiss. His lips are soft, opening up for the invading tongue without hesitation. When Gil pulls away to haul him the few inches up onto the formica slab behind him, he laughs.

“You really do love this, don’t you?” Malcolm eases the shirt up over his bump.

Kissing his neck, Gil splays a possessive hand across the curve. “What do you think?” He gives it one last caress before pulling at the knot on the drawstring of the sweats. The waistband gives him ample room to fist Malcolm's swelling cock. “I think you do, too.”

“Only when you do it, Daddy,” he replies cheekily, his voice trailing off into a whine as the hand starts moving, jerking him slowly, a thumb teasing at the slit. “God, Gil.”

Gil reluctantly lets go of him for just long enough to pull his own dick out. He holds his palm out for Malcolm, who licks a wet stripe across it and curls his tongue around the fingers, and then wraps it around them both. 

They groan in unison.

And Malcolm screams. And screams. 

Gil is ripped from his dream, his body getting out of bed on autopilot. He barely has time to realize what’s happening before he’s in the guest room watching Malcolm writhe and howl. “Malcolm, it’s not real.”

There’s no change.

“Malcolm.”

He strains against the cuffs, the headboard groaning from the force of his struggles.

“ _Wake up, kid!_ ”

That does it. Malcolm’s eyes open, red from the tears he was shedding in his sleep. He makes a wounded noise that hits Gil right in the chest.

Gil’s hands curl into fists from the effort of not touching him right away. “Can I touch you, kid?” He doesn’t want to make it worse.

“Please,” Malcolm whimpers. He’s limp in the bed.

Moving slowly so as to make sure he doesn’t startle him, Gil releases his cuffs and eases himself into the bed. His erection is completely gone, thankfully, because he pulls Malcolm half into his lap, and the kid clings to him, burying his head in Gil’s chest, his growing son cradled between them. Gil holds him firmly. 

“I was careful,” Malcolm says desperately, trying to convince Gil, trying to convince himself. “I know not to take an open drink, Gil, I _swear_.”

His eyes shut, and he holds him closer. Drugs. Of course it was drugs. Malcolm may be reckless, but he can take care of himself. When not inhibited. 

Jack is not going to like meeting Gil.

“It was ketamine.” Malcolm is hysterical, and it bleeds through every word. “ _Ketamine_. I couldn’t do anything while he —” He cuts off with a sob. “And now I’m pregnant. I _want_ this baby, I want my son. I don’t want _Jack’s_ son.”

It’s more candid than Malcolm has ever been about the baby, about his pregnancy and assault, and despite having an idea of what happened, it rips into him to hear it straight. He can’t help the anger that surges through him. He’s seen Malcolm low plenty of times before but never like this. “He’s yours,” he bites out. As far as he’s concerned, Malcolm’s son is Malcolm’s and Malcolm’s alone. “Jack’s not a fucking father, kid. That’s not what being a father means.” 

Malcolm clutches at his shirt, fingers digging into the thin fabric. “I keep dreaming of him. About weddings and our son.” 

“ _Your_ son.” Gil doesn’t want to hear anymore. He doesn’t want to know. But he has to. He has to listen, for Malcolm, and he has to know, for Jack. 

“I don’t want to dream about him,” the kid pleads, voice small and body trembling.

Gil kisses the crown of his head to soothe him, to soothe both of them. “I know, Malcolm.” He feels empty and powerless.

“Can you stay? Just tonight.” He clings tighter. “You feel different than him.”

He would do anything for Malcolm right now, probably any other time, too, and so he agrees and moves them both into a better position. He falls asleep comforted by the feel of both Malcolm and his son safe in his arms. 

Unlike earlier, his dreams aren’t sexy in the least, though they are still about the man in bed with him. _About weddings_ , Malcolm said, _and our son_. He was referring to Jack, of course, but his words stick with Gil, filtering through into his sleep. 

It would be a fairly traditional wedding if Jessica has anything to say about it. And yet it would be small, cozy, because that’s what _Malcolm_ would need. Gil stands next to JT at the altar, Dani on the man’s other side, in a tux for the first time since he married Jackie all those years ago. Instead of off the rack, it’s a tailored piece this time, accentuating his height and broad chest, ordered after Malcolm set those pleading eyes on him. Not that he minds giving him what he wants. 

When his fiance walks down the aisle, a weepy Jessica on his arm, the sight of him distracts from everything else. His suit, a gorgeous but impractical white, is also tailored to fit him perfectly. It’s formed to his stomach, not stretched and not loose. Unlike the last time he wore a white suit, no one’s cracking any jokes.

Gil reaches out and holds his hand as they stand in front of each other. Edrisa and Ainsley are positioned behind Malcolm, warm and supportive.

Malcolm looks at him, and a slow smile spreads across his flushed face.

\---------------

When Gil wakes up, the kid is a dead weight on top of him, his head resting between Gil’s neck and shoulder, one short leg thrown over a long one. His bump is warm against Gil’s stomach, a reminder of Malcolm’s strength and love. All in all, they’re touching almost everywhere on that side. He’s half hard from the contact, but he ignores it, taking a deep breath and settling in. He won’t wake Malcolm, especially not after last night.

Sleep has almost taken him again when it happens. 

There’s a pleased sigh against his neck as Malcolm snuggles closer. Then, he rolls his hips, pressing a growing hard on against Gil’s leg. He makes happy breathy noises into his neck.

Gil freezes. If he moves, Malcolm will know he’s been awake. If Malcolm is even awake himself. If he doesn’t move, they’ll both have to deal with the fact that the kid got off humping him. 

Malcolm kisses his collar bone and hums happily.

He grits his teeth as his own morning wood stiffens more. The undeniable cock shaped lump rubbing against him combined with how _satisfied_ Malcolm sounds is sending pangs right down to his groin. Gently, he tries to ease him off of his body. The rocking falters. He tries again, and this time, Malcolm moves with his hand.

Gil is off the bed as soon as he’s free, moving so that his erection is hidden. “I’ll go start breakfast, kid. Why don’t you get dressed?” He doesn’t wait for a response.

Once in the kitchen, he immediately sets to cracking eggs, but the tension in his hands means he spends more time fishing bits of shell out of the bowl than he does actually cracking. He puts that energy into scrambling them. Half his mind is focused on listening for the sounds of Malcolm coming in. The eggs are in the pan before he hears him.

“I don’t have any bacon,” he says apologetically, though it’s probably for the best now. “I don’t have much of anything here, but there’s eggs and cheese.” His fridge is empty, because he’s been eating with Malcolm every single day. Anything he’s bought in weeks has made it right over to the loft, intermingling with the kid’s food, being shared indiscriminately. He thinks back to his dream, to Malcolm clothed in white.

Maybe he’s gotten too close. 

\-----------------

## 22 weeks

He takes a step back for the rest of the week. He still makes sure Malcolm gets breakfast and lunch and dinner, all of the snacks and rides he needs, because even if he can’t, _shouldn’t_ be with him the way he wants, he wants to help. 

Every day, he can sense Malcolm’s eyes on him. It kills him to feel the pleading weight on his back, to see the way kid tries to catch his gaze and hold it, but Gil won’t let him. He can’t. He knows that if he gives him the chance, he’ll give in. He always gives in when it comes to Malcolm.

He’s making eggs and bacon again, sleeves pushed up as he works on breakfast. He turns when he hears Malcolm come in.

This morning, Malcolm is shirtless, his bump more evident than ever, red ragged stripes painted all along the curve of it. He’s rubbing one hand over them idly. 

Gil looks away from the temptation. This is the first time he’s actually seen his stomach. Even in bed, when he could feel the shape of Malcolm’s body so intimately, he hadn’t seen him undressed. “You planning on going into work like that?” The joke falls flat. He really should take it back, but he doesn’t know quite how. 

Flushing, Malcolm dips his head. It does little to hide the way his pale skin turns rosy. “...I can get a shirt.”

“No.” Gil turns back to the stove. He needs to focus on their food or everything will burn. It’s simple fare and doesn’t take much time to cook. As soon as it’s done, he divides everything in two and takes a seat next to Malcolm, ignoring how easy it would be to reach out and trace those stretchmarks for himself. 

They make idle conversation about the team. Gil is supportive of him, but most of all, he’s proud. Proud of how much Malcolm has allowed himself to integrate into the team, to trust them enough that he would decide to share his secret instead of dragging it out until he was forced to. 

Malcolm licks his fingers again, happily cleaning them of the remaining bacon grease, wholly unaware of how tempting he is. “Look, Gil, I apologize if I’d made you uncomfortable.”

Made him uncomfortable? “You haven’t,” he blurts out. He’s the one who pushed too far, who intertwined their lives while underestimating his own strength of will. “Kid —”

“You don’t look at me anymore,” Malcolm says, voice breaking. His eyes are trained on his food. “What am I supposed to think?” 

He fucked up. He was hoping things would even out eventually, that they would get back to something closer to how they used to be. It was difficult on him, pulling back, but he didn’t think about how it would affect Malcolm. “Shit,” he says, cursing himself over and over again in his head. He turns to Malcolm and tries to catch his attention. “It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.”

“Promise?” 

“Yeah, kid, I promise.” 

\-------------

Gil spends the rest of the morning touching him, a hand here, a brush past there, because it stabilizes the kid, quells the anxious edge that crops up now and then. He doesn’t pull away when Malcolm leans on him or reaches out. He lets him lead for the most part.

Which is how he ends up sitting at his desk, holding hands underneath it as Malcolm lets the team in on his pregnancy. Edrisa, as expected, is ecstatic, already throwing out facts. He’s a little disquieted by the faces Dani and JT are making.

“Is it baby Bright?” Dani’s expression is neutral, seeking but not judging. “Or is it baby _Arroyo?_ ”

Just those two words sends a pang through his chest.

“You two have been awful close lately,” JT adds. 

Gil needs to let Malcolm take this. He can’t speak for what they’ve been doing, for what it means to Malcolm. But Malcolm falters, mouth opening and closing without a word escaping. He thinks about his dream again. “We haven’t discussed anything yet.”

Malcolm gives him a panicked look, eyes wide.

_Later_ , he thinks and tries to convey it silently. 

\--------------

The more Gil thinks about it, the better the idea seems. If his name is on the birth certificate instead of a blank space, it would be harder for people to connect Malcolm’s son with Jack. It wouldn’t be airtight. It doesn’t _need_ to be. Even a surface deep diversion could give the kid peace of mind. Gil, too. Giving the baby his name would allow him more leeway with protecting them both. He tries not to think of how much harder it would be to keep an emotional distance.

He puts their conversation off as long as he can. He moves around the kitchen with an ease born of months of familiarity, throwing together a simple chicken and potatoes based sheet pan dinner in a few short minutes, which is both good and bad, considering it means they’re free to talk while it bakes. 

“Gil, what did you mean back in your office?”

So many things. That he loves him, that he loves the baby, that he’s willing to do so much for both of them. “I meant that you don’t have to do this alone.”

“You’ve already made that clear,” Malcolm says firmly, not budging. “You’re stalling. Please just explain.”

So he does. He lets his idea out, airing his thoughts between them. “What if I claimed the baby as my own? If I’m on the birth certificate as the father, it would be another roadblock between you, your son, and that scumbag.”

Malcolm looks distinctly uncomfortable. “Gil, I can’t let you do that.”

“Kid, I’m offering,” he insists. If Malcolm doesn’t want him to, he’ll back off. If all he's worried about is Gil, he has no reason to. 

“You can’t decide to adopt a child on a whim,” he bites out. “What would the rest of the precinct think? The team hasn’t been around as long as some of those cops. Cops that remember me following you around as an actual _child_.”

Gil shakes his head. Haven’t they been over this already? Let them think whatever bullshit they want to think. Malcolm is in his thirties. “I don’t care what they think. You’re far from that kid now, and we know the truth. I’ll gladly tell my superiors —”

“A lie?” He’s getting louder, more frantic. “You and I aren’t a couple. Why risk ruining your reputation over this? And speaking of reputation, what about my mother?”

“I thought you told her. Look, it doesn’t matter. We’ll deal with all of it as it comes,” Gil promises, trying to soothe Malcolm before he spirals fully into panic. He should have eased into his idea. He should have given it more thought. He shouldn’t have been so fucking _careless_. “Together, if you let me help.”

“She may know the truth, but society won’t. She’s just getting her status back. It’ll just be another stain if her grandson is claimed but not legitimate. If I’m alone, there will be less pressure for a shotgun wedding. I won’t put her in that position.” 

“Then we’ll get married!” He freezes, remembering that while he may be okay with that, Malcolm doesn’t care for him that way, probably doesn’t want to be trapped in a marriage with someone he doesn’t love. Nevermind the fact that it would destroy Gil to be in a fake marriage with the kid. A marriage in name only, where he has to hold back his affection, his attraction. He knows he wouldn’t tie him down. He’d let Malcolm find a love of his own even as it pained him to watch.

The oven timer goes off.

“Go get it,” Malcolm says, curling in on himself. “I need a minute anyway.”

Gil brings over two plates full of food and doesn’t say a word.

## 23 weeks

The next week is… tense. They don’t talk about marriage. They don’t talk about much of anything at all. It’s all skirting around the issue, eating breakfast and dinner in silence barring a few case related discussions, and pretending it never happened. 

But it doesn’t mean that Gil isn’t thinking about it. Three days after that night, he and Dani are in a jewelry shop questioning the clerk about a robbery turned murder across the street. The woman, Jenny, can’t tell them much.

Gil’s eyes linger on the display cases while Dani talks to her. Some of the rings are extravagant, complete with multiple large stones that shine through the glass, and while he could see Jessica wearing something like it, he imagines Malcolm would prefer something more subtle, less likely to catch on something on a case. 

“Are you looking for something specific?” Jenny is next to him, smiling. 

He glances over at Dani, who smirks at him. He nods. “An engagement ring. Something… not too flashy.”

Opening the case, she pulls out a few bands and sets them on top of the case. “Any of these look good?”

He’s not sure what he’s looking for, but none of them fit. They’re either too bland or bordering on too obnoxious, and not a single one really feels like Malcolm. He tells her that, letting her swap them for more bands from the case.

It takes two more swaps for him to see it. The band is fairly short with a thin section of small diamonds inlaid around the middle. He decides on it immediately, choosing a simpler band for himself in the same metal. It’s a hefty bill, but Gil has been saving for years, barely touching a cent of it.

“Not half bad,” Dani tells him as they leave the building. 

“Let’s hope. We still haven’t talked.” The ring may end up wearing a hole in his dresser for all he knows. He pushes the thought down and focuses on the case. “C’mon, we have to get back to the precinct.”

\-------------

Without dinner at the loft to look forward to, Gil’s not sure what to eat. His fridge is still woefully empty. He flips through old takeout menus, not terribly hungry but aware that he should eat. 

He’s debating calling for Indian when his phone rings. _City Boy_ flashes up on the screen. “Malcolm?” Dinner at the Whitly house shouldn’t be over yet.

“Hey Gil.” His voice cracks. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

Gil is already pulling on his jacket and gathering his keys. “Do you need me to pick you up?”

“No, but… can you join us?”

“I’m on my way.” He locks his door. “Go sit down and eat for me. I’m sure your girls are wondering where you are.”

\----------------

When he arrives, Jessica crowds him in the entrance, fierce and angry. “Do you know his name?” She’s whispering.

“Jack,” he murmurs. “That’s all I have, Jessica.”

“Lewis. Jack Lewis. I’ve been looking into him for weeks, but everyone loves that fucker.” She meets his eyes, hers pleading, not unlike Malcolm’s. “I _need_ you to find something to skewer him with.”

He commits the name to memory, feeling that all familiar rage rise. Without evidence, he can’t pin Malcolm’s assault on the man. Gil’s sure, however, that Jack hasn’t _only_ hurt Malcolm. They’ll get him somehow. “Thank you.” 

She hugs him in relief, though she’s careful not to smudge her makeup. “My children are in the dining room.”

There’s a seat open next to the kid, and he shifts the chair just enough to inch closer to him as he sits. He thanks the man who brings a plate in for him. It looks delicious, and yet he has no appetite.

Ainsley watches him before shifting gears to her brother. “Gil’s here, so spill.”

“I’m pregnant, Ains.” He says it slowly and evenly, but Gil can tell he’s trying not to bolt.

He’d be surprised if neither of the women could tell, too.

“What?” Ainsley narrows her eyes. “You two knew? Well, of course Mother knew, she’s too excited not to.” 

“He wasn’t planned. Mother hasn’t known for very long either.” Malcolm takes a quiet deep breath.

She falters. “He? Mal, how far along are you?”

“Twenty-three weeks,” Gil chimes in. He pulls out his wallet and hands her the most recent sonogram, worn from being in his wallet. He doesn’t take it out often, warmed by the knowledge that it’s there, and even if Ainsley doesn’t give it back, he has more. 

She takes it without looking. “Don’t think I missed you saying that _Mother_ didn’t know until recently.” She turns to Gil, all riled up. “Gil, are you fucking my brother?” 

“ _Ainsley!_ ” Jessica looks at her sternly. “Don’t be crass!”

Part of Gil knows why she’s lashing out, knows that she’s hurt from being left out. Malcolm was her whole world for so long, and he shared a lot with her while Jessica was still recovering from Martin’s arrest. Ainsley was the one he went to when he wanted to be normal. When he didn’t want to be seen through the lens of what he’d been through. 

Mostly, however, he wants to get Malcolm out of the house until she can process everything. “Maybe we should call it a night, kid.”

Malcolm nods. “We’re not fucking, Ains,” he says quietly. He turns to Jessica. “I’m sorry for cutting this short.” 

Her face is pinched. “At least let me send you home with some food for my grandson.” 

“Malcolm,” Ainsley says, having realized her misstep.

“I know,” Malcolm replies, because he can’t be mad at her. He never could. “We can talk tomorrow.” 

Gil guides him out, giving Jessica a tired smile when she meets them at the door with two full containers of leftovers. He hands them to Malcolm once they’re in the car.

“I’m not going to be able to eat all of this myself,” the kid says halfheartedly. They’re at a stoplight. The ride has been quiet so far. He clutches the containers closer to his bump. “Eat with me?”

“Of course, kid.”

\------------

Malcolm’s feeling more talkative back at the loft. “I don’t know why she assumed that you’re the father. I’m sorry for dragging you into that, Gil.” His shoulders are hunched.

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” He doesn’t mind being dragged in, and in fact, there was no dragging. He only wishes he could have been at dinner from the beginning.

Malcolm huffs. “Why doesn’t it bother you?” 

_Because I love you. Because I wish it were true._ He busies himself with getting utensils out. “Do I need a reason?”

“ _Yes_!”

“Okay,” he says, going up to Malcolm, not able to hold back any longer. He feels nauseous. This could be it, this could be the moment when Malcolm tells him to get out, to leave him alone. He could want nothing to do with Gil after this. Gil goes in slow, giving him every opportunity to pull away. Cupping his jaw, feeling the stubble against his palm, he puts everything in him into the kiss. All of the love, all of the pride, all of the respect. It’s gentle. “Is that reason enough?” He waits, holding his breath.

Malcolm meets his eyes. He’s dazed, hopeful. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Gil murmurs. “Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, do yourself a favor and listen to "Say Something Loving" by the xx and think about Gil and Malcolm here


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note for the future: the rest of the fic will be a mix of both Gil POV and Malcolm POV now that they're together!

Gil lets go of Malcolm’s face, but he reaches out and holds his hand, not wanting to give the wrong impression. “Hey, let’s eat.”

Malcolm nods dumbly. 

The containers of food from his mother’s kitchen are still hot, having been packed up in a rush before anything had the chance to cool. With the moment as fragile as it is, neither of them are willing to part long enough to grab plates, and so they sit at the bar, hands clasped, eating straight from the tupperware. There’s no talking. They just exist together for a time.

“Should I leave?” Gil says eventually, once they’ve both had their fill. He keeps his face neutral. He wants Malcolm to decide, to lead the way this goes. 

“Stay,” Malcolm pleads. 

He does.

Surprisingly, Malcolm is the one to pull away, squeezing Gil’s hand and wandering over to his dresser to pull out a soft pair of pajama pants for himself. He strips right then and there. It’s not sexual per se, more domestic. He feels so comfortable with Gil. He doesn’t pull on a new shirt, instead picking up the bottle of lotion he’s been using on his bump.

Behind him, Gil sits on the edge of the bed and strips down to his boxers. He folds his discarded clothes and comes up next to the kid to drop the pile on the top of the dresser. There’s a light dusting of dark hair on his chest, some of it tinged gray, and while not ripped, he’s still fit. “Do you want help with that?” He gestures to the lotion.

Malcolm hesitates. “Could you?” He doesn’t mind doing it himself. In fact, he loves it, loves bonding with his son, and the thought of Gil forging that connection, too, makes him feel weepy. He wants whatever this is with Gil, and he wants his son, but his son has to come first.

Gil takes the lotion and kisses him again, this time just a short one, an affectionate peck. “Lay down on the bed, kid.” He stills. “Is that too weird?”

“I think it would be weirder if you stopped,” Malcolm admits. He crawls into bed and rolls over onto his back, tired eyes on Gil. 

Once again, Gil is struck dumb by the image he presents. His short hair is loose against the pillows, his body relaxed into the mattress. He’s compact and lean everywhere except for his stomach, which sticks up, curved and striped and eye-catching. It’s an oh so attractive scene, but Gil ignores his own budding arousal to sit on the edge of the bed, one foot on the floor and the other tucked underneath him, facing Malcolm. 

Those startling blues watch him as he dispenses some of the lotion on his hands, holding them together to warm it up. 

His touch is light. He doesn’t want to use too much pressure, not with Malcolm’s son, and so the first few motions of his hands are smooth, gliding across taut skin with the lotion easing the way. 

“It’s never going to dry that way,” Malcolm says wryly. He doesn’t move to correct him, however. 

Gil huffs, fond. “Smartass.” Slowly, he applies more pressure, spreading the lotion all over his stomach, his hands molding to the curve, paying special attention to the stretchmarks on the underside. It’s too soon for him to feel any kicks or shifting, but he knows Baby Bright is there. He commits the shape of him to memory as he continues to rub the skin in gentle circles until the white of the lotion disappears. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Malcolm’s eyes shut. “That feel good?”

All he can manage is a satisfied hum. There’s something wonderful about not doing this himself. He can feel the warmth of Gil’s hands, the larger size of them, the love he puts into the act. He realizes now just how much he was yearning to be touched, _loved_ , this way. 

And Gil drags it out. He caresses Malcolm past the point of the lotion absorbing, keeping an eye on the way his face goes slack, the stress melting off. It helps that he doesn’t quite want to pull away yet, either. He only does so when the slightly tacky feeling is completely gone. 

“Thank you,” Malcolm says, eyes half lidded. He looks like he's on the verge of nodding off already. “Are we going to sleep now?”

“Mmhm.” Carefully, Gil slips into bed with him, arranging them both in the same way they slept together at his house weeks before, but this time, neither of them bother to wear shirts. “Restraints?”

Malcolm immediately curls into Gil’s side and throws an arm over his bare chest. “Just one tonight.” 

Loosening the strap on the restraint, Gil cuffs that wrist and kisses the crown of his head, an arm coming up to wrap around Malcolm's back. “Night, kid.”

\------------

The sunlight illuminates the room, pulling Malcolm out of his sleep. He’s once again pressed up against a man, his dick half hard from the contact. He runs his hand across a slightly hairy chest and remembers what happened, how he ended up in bed with Gil again. The arm along his back shifts to hold him closer.

“Mornin’,” Gil says, voice rough.

“Sorry,” Malcolm replies. He’s sure he’s flushed. “If you release the cuff, I’ll take care of that in the shower.” He doesn’t want to push this. They’ve kissed twice, and that’s it. No declarations of love, no makeouts, not even a discussion of where to go from here. 

Gil is silent for a moment, thinking. He, too, doesn’t want to ruin what they’ve created, doesn’t want to push Malcolm if he’s not ready for sex, but in truth, they’ve been dancing around this for weeks. “Or,” he says hesitantly.

“Or?” Malcolm lifts his head and looks up at him. 

“You could take care of it here.” He can feel himself getting hard at the thought, grateful for the blanket that’s still covering him from the abdomen down. He doesn’t move for the restraint. Next to him, Malcolm takes a deep breath, the expansion of his chest pushing against his side.

He inches closer and lays his head back down on Gil’s shoulder. Hesitantly, he slides a leg over one of Gil’s, bringing his groin into full contact with the long limb. He moans. “Like this?”

Gil runs his hand up and down Malcolm’s back. “Like that. C’mon, kid.”

His hips rock back and forth at a lazy pace, the bulge in his pajama pants rubbing against his leg, stiffening more with each pass. 

“That’s it,” Gil murmurs. “A little faster now.”

Malcolm groans and does as he asked, humping him until he’s leaking in his boxer briefs. “ _Gil._ ”

“I’ve got you. You can come when you’re ready, baby.” He angles his head to lay a closed mouth kiss on Malcolm’s hair, his hand still tracing a path along the kid’s back.

Malcolm whines through his teeth as his hips spasm, pressing himself as close to Gil as he can, coming in his pants. He goes limp. 

“You okay, Malcolm?” Gil releases the singular restraint. 

He hums in the affirmative. “Maybe a little hungry.”

It makes Gil laugh, the rumbling of his chest shaking Malcolm’s head where it still rests on his shoulder. “Go shower. I’ll make eggs.”

“But what about you?” He’s basking in the languid post-orgasm feeling, but he’s aware that Gil didn’t even touch himself once. Although he appreciates the orgasm — _god_ , does he — it doesn’t sit right with him.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Gil says seriously. He didn’t kiss Malcolm so that he could fuck him. He’s perfectly willing to wait until he's comfortable with reciprocating.

“What if I want to?” He knows he sounds whiny, but he does want to. He wants to do a lot with Gil. The thought of Jack puts a damper on it, gives him a touch of anxiety and shame and loathing. Still, he _wants_ this. 

Gil sighs. “I don’t want you to push yourself too far.” He shifts his arm out from around Malcolm and props himself up better. “Stay there and let me know if you need me to stop.” Reaching into the fly of his boxers, he frees his aching cock. It’s already dark with arousal, leaking ever so slightly from the earlier display.

Malcolm’s eyes are drawn to it. He props himself up, too, with an arm under his head, maybe a foot away from what’s happening. “God, Gil.”

“It’s what you do to me,” he says with a groan, fisting himself. “You’re gorgeous, kid, and I don’t think you realize just how much.” He lets go to spit on his hand and then goes right back to it. “The sounds you made.” His hand twists at the head. “The way you shook when you came.” He thrusts up, short jerky movements. “ _Fuck._ The look in your eyes now.”

Malcolm licks his lips, transfixed. He can’t agree with Gil, not when all he can see in the mirror nowadays is a thin, exhausted, pregnant man, but he’s unable to say a word. Not when Gil is so worked up just taking him in.

His rhythm stutters. “Can you say my name, baby?” He looks at Malcolm, still flushed, his hair loose, the swell of his child uncovered.

“ _Gil._ ”

He curses and fists himself harder, working through his orgasm, coming on his chest and groin. He huffs. “Should have thought to take the boxers off first.”

“I guess you’ll just have to go commando,” Malcolm teases. He frowns, thinking about his own briefs. He feels clammy and sticky and gross. Thankfully, it doesn’t detract from how good, how light he feels now that he knows his affection is returned. “Not that I have any ground to stand on. I’ll be in the shower.” Climbing off the bed, he stops abruptly and leans back down, putting all of his contentedness into kissing Gil. 

It’s light, but Gil deepens it before letting him go. “Go on. I’ll make food.” He shucks his somewhat soiled boxers and wipes himself down with them, pulls his pants and sweater back on. They’ll stop back at his place for a change of clothes. Maybe a few, if Malcolm wants him to stay. He sits on the edge of the mattress and reflects. It was risky if not borderline stupid what he did last night, leading with a kiss when it very well could have resulted in him being kicked out. He rubs a hand over his mouth, smoothing his goatee down. He can’t regret it. 

Walking into the kitchen, he pulls breakfast ingredients out on autopilot. He sets a pan on the stove to preheat and cracks four eggs in a bowl. This has been his routine for weeks, before he even realized what he wanted with Malcolm. He should have known. Food, Jackie always claimed, is not _only_ the way to anyone’s heart. It’s a love language. An act of service, of affection, of caring. 

He lays the bacon down into the pan. As it sizzles away, he fiddles with his old ring. He turns it three, four times. He takes it off to examine. There was a time not that long ago when he was sure he would wear it for the rest of his life, sure he would mourn Jackie until he died. She ordered him not to, of course, but they both knew it wouldn’t be that easy. He closes his hand around it and brings his fist up to his heart. 

She would be appalled to know he still wore it when he kissed Malcolm, that he clung to it for so long knowing that he was in love with someone new. Even more, she would understand and accept his love. Not that it wouldn’t throw her off balance to know the focus of his affection, at least at first. She told him to keep his heart open.

Flipping the bacon, Gil walks away from the stove to pull his wallet out of his jacket. He slots his old ring in next to the ultrasound picture and smiles. It’s time to follow through with her requests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, an important update note here - I'm going in for surgery tomorrow (it's low risk and elective, so don't worry). I have no idea how soon I'll feel up to writing afterwards, so please be patient with me on the next chapter or few chapters.


	16. Chapter 16

## 24 Weeks

Gil doesn’t have much free time anymore, spending so much of his day with Malcolm, working beside him, cooking for him, holding him. They haven’t done much touching beyond cuddling and kissing, though he still encourages him not to be ashamed by his arousal or the fact that he’s not ready to be touched the way he wants. Gil’s well aware of Malcolm's rising hormones. 

And he loves all of the time they spend together, truly. The only problem is that it doesn’t give him much time to look into Jack, not if he wants to keep his personal investigation a secret. He’s managed to run a discreet background check. It was a bust. Jack Lewis, age thirty-seven, has never been arrested or even suspected of anything. He only has four speeding tickets to his name, all from over ten years ago. On paper, he’s perfect. 

Gil knows he’s a scumbag. He knows he’s a rapist. He knows he has the means to use ketamine and potentially other drugs to secure his victims, and that he’s good enough at it to bypass Malcolm’s suspicions long enough to get him, too. He doesn’t even need a profiler to tell him of the chances Jack has done this before. It’s glaringly obvious this was not his first offense, but without any reports, any evidence, any victims coming forward, they have no case. 

Gil doesn’t even know where to start looking. He doesn’t know the name of the bar Malcolm went to or even where the assault took place. Hell, he doesn’t even know when for sure. He knows the week it must have happened from Malcolm’s doctor visits and insistence he knew exactly when he conceived, but he hadn’t brought the profiler in on a case at the time and couldn’t pinpoint a specific day. 

All they have is the baby growing within him. No proof that it was assault, just proof sex occurred. Jack wouldn’t have much trouble denying what really happened unless they could catch him with something. 

So Gil keeps an ear out. He listens for any cases involving ketamine specifically in the hopes that they might be able to nail the fucker. 

\------------------

Malcolm isn’t as shy about his body now that they’ve gotten together. He still has his days where he can’t look at his stomach, can’t touch it, but Gil’s presence helps with the nightmares, both in preventing them and in soothing him after. They’re not gone. They just aren’t as bad. 

The way Gil looks at him, however, is the biggest reason he’s as comfortable as he is. There’s attraction there and not the kind that would make him flinch back, not the kind he remembers seeing in Jack’s eyes in that hotel room. Gil looks at him in a soft way. He’s attracted and enamoured and appreciative. When Malcolm lays out the yoga mat, sleep pants low on his hips, stomach bare, Gil watches quietly for a moment before pulling him into a soft kiss and moving into the kitchen to cook. 

Malcolm does his breathing exercises with the knowledge that Gil is here with him. He allows himself to relax more than usual, to tamp down his worries some, because he’s safe. He stops his routine as soon as he smells the food. 

“How are you feeling?” Gil says, putting two plates of eggs and bacon down on the bar.

“Fine.” He smiles to prove it. It’s been several days since he last dreamed of Jack, and not even the ever present worry that this won’t last, that Gil won’t stick around once he realizes how much work he is, that everything will fall apart in front of them, is enough to really dampen his mood. 

\---------------

Of course it can’t last forever. 

His society smile slips a little more every second he stands in front of the tailor, forced to listen to the man’s inane comments on his shape, his height, how far along he might be. He begrudgingly corrects the man on the latter. Yes, he knows he’s six months. Twenty-four weeks to be exact. No, there’s no chance he’s wrong about that. Yes, his doctor agrees. Yes, he’s carrying a little small.

Then there’s the actual clothing talk. The tailor tells him all about the newest styles in pregnancy fashion, all of which are about accentuating the bump, highlighting the baby. Malcolm tries to tell him he’s not interested. He wants suits for the most part. Suits that fit but still fall in with his typical style. Otherwise, he needs some clothes for lounging, but he’s considering just buying those off the rack at this point.

It almost makes him regret not taking his mother up on her offer to have him tailored at the loft. _Almost._ This way at least, he doesn’t have to suffer through all of the knowing looks when she sees the traces of Gil that have made their home there in the last week. Or the questions, because she’ll definitely have questions and ideas, nevermind the fact that this is all new.

He walks out having paid for several new articles that will hopefully get him through a few more weeks. It’s a relief to leave. 

\-------------------

Gil reluctantly tables the investigation into Jack. There’s nothing useful there. The man is too good at covering his tracks, at slipping away without a scratch on him. Gil won’t let it go, however. He’ll be watching for any mistakes. 

It lifts his spirits to see Malcolm enter the precinct. His clothes are the ones he picked out that morning, a set that still manages to hide his bump to some degree, and he’s holding two paper bags and a drink holder as he makes his way over to the team sitting in one of the conference rooms. 

JT takes the drinks from him and whistles. “I could probably get four coffees for the price of this one.”

“I can pour you a coffee in the break room if you’d like,” Malcolm says dryly as he sets the bags on the table. He pulls out four sandwiches and one small tub of soup. Divvying up the sandwiches between the team, he keeps one and the soup for himself. 

“You didn’t have to come in. We don’t have any good cases today,” Gil tells him. He reaches out and holds his hand despite his words. 

Malcolm cracks his soup open and brings it up to his nose, eyes sliding shut as the smell of cheddar hits him. He woke up that morning with the persistent craving for something cheesy. His sandwich, a BLT with extra bacon, will cover his other cravings. “I wanted to see you,” he says, distracted. He takes a bite of his sandwich and hums. 

Grinning, Gil brings their hands up to his mouth and lays a kiss on Malcolm’s. 

JT shakes his head before unwrapping his own meal, while Dani pretends to gag, a smile on her lips.

\---------------------

Once they’re back at the loft, Malcolm toes his shoes off with a groan. 

Gil pulls his attention away from the fridge to give him a concerned look. “Are you alright, kid?”

“Just peachy.” Hanging his coat up, he pads over to the bed and drops backwards onto it. “My ankles are swelling.” He knew it was coming. All of the blogs he read warned him. He first noticed it as he sat in Gil’s office earlier that day picking at a bag of mixed nuts (courtesy of JT) and flipping through cold cases. 

The fridge doors close with a soft thud. “Lift a leg,” Gil says when he reaches the bed. 

Malcolm does. He sighs as cool fingers touch his ankle, gently manipulating it this way and that. 

“It doesn’t look too bad.” Frowning slightly, Gil eases the limb down with one last caress. “Why don’t you get changed, and we can elevate it. I’ll bring you dinner in bed.”

“Let’s eat on the couch.” Less chance of a mess on the bed that way, yes, and also there’s a large part of him that wants to curl up with Gil tonight, to watch something, maybe another classic, and exist in a space where he doesn’t have to think about his ankles or the dark line developing on his stomach or tailors. 

And so they arrange themselves on the couch, Malcolm’s legs across Gil’s lap, his aching feet propped up on pillows. There’s a pillow resting over his legs, too, with a plate of warm fajitas cushioned on top. The younger man holds his own dinner. His bump prevents him from being able to keep it in his lap and still close enough not to make a mess, but the swell isn’t large enough to be a level surface either. He grips a tortilla with one hand, the other supporting the plate.

Gil flips channels until he finds one playing classics. _The Cincinnati Kid_ plays on the big screen as they eat, soaking in the other’s presence.

## 25 weeks

Towards the beginning of the week, he gets a call that his clothes are ready. It's a fairly quick turnaround, but the extra money he spent for a rush order was a worthwhile investment with the way his old clothes were clinging to him. The tailor who measured him is the one who waits on him again. He insists on Malcolm trying on some of the clothes. Malcolm agrees to one outfit and one outfit only.

Seeing the image in the mirror is odd. Of course he’s seen himself without a shirt, when his pregnancy is one hundred percent undeniable, but now, for the first time in weeks, he looks like _himself_. The suit fits him perfectly. There’s no tension across the stomach, no looseness in the chest. If anything, his bump is just lightly accentuated, a soft curve cradled by fabric. He looks every bit the wealthy, pregnant professional.

The tailor rambles on, but Malcolm’s not listening.

\------------------

He unpacks his new clothes back at the loft, hanging and folding and slotting each one into their places. Part of him is tempted to go to the precinct next and surprise Gil. He shivers thinking about the look he’ll get, the way Gil's eyes will undoubtedly trace the shape of his swell now that it’s highlighted. Would he pull Malcolm into his office? Kiss him and tell him exactly what he thinks? 

It’s maybe not the best idea. Deciding to hold off unless he’s called in, Malcolm lets Sunshine out and grabs a snack.

His phone rings two cheese sticks later. His OB’s office flashes up on the screen. “Bright.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bright,” the cheery voice on the other end of the line says. “I’m calling to set up your gestational diabetes screening. Do you have a preferred day of the week?”

Gestational diabetes. He bites his lip. It’s not that he _forgot_ about the screening, it’s more that he had plenty of other things on his mind. He knows from the baby blogs that it can be managed if he has it, but that’s not what stalls him now. Truthfully, he doesn’t know that much about his family medical history, and while his mother might know about her own, it’s doubtful she’ll be able to give him much if anything about the Whitly side of things, especially if his father was as overbearing and controlling during her pregnancies as he expects he was.

Malcolm sets up his appointment and puts Sunshine back in her cage.

\-----------------

The taxi driver makes a face when his pregnant fare asks to go to Claremont Psychiatric Hospital, but money is money, and the young man in his back seat looks like he has a lot of it. 

Malcolm tips him well as soon as he’s out of the car. He straightens his clothes, brushes off the discomfort of the ride, and steps into the building, garnering more dubious looks from the staff at sign in.

When he gets to his father’s hall, Mr. David greets him. The man already knows about his pregnancy from his previous visits and no doubt, his father’s glee, and so his face isn’t disapproving, more resigned.

Malcolm returns the look before the guard opens the final door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! My surgery went very well, and I'm recovered enough from it (and finishing my fic for the prodigal son swap, which went live earlier today) that I was able to get the new chapter finished! I'll be replying to all your comments on here and other fics if you've commented on those in the last week and a half as soon as I get this posted.
> 
> Thank you for all of your well wishes and patience!!


	17. Chapter 17

Martin grins, the corners of his mouth stretching out, his teeth white amidst the grays of his beard. His eyes wander down to Malcolm’s abdomen and back up, just slow enough to be purposeful. “My boy! I was wondering when you would visit again.” He pulls back on the grin. His whole expression softens into something that still hits his son in the heart, still registers as love for all that he doubts the man is capable of it. “It’s been so long.”

“I wish it were longer,” Malcolm says shortly. When Mr. David offers him a chair, he takes it, already exhausted just by being there. He crosses his legs the best he can and straightens his suit. He doesn’t bother trying to hide his bump, keeping his body language as open as he can manage. The less ammunition he can give his father, the better. 

Martin shifts in his chair until he’s facing his son rather than the desk. “I see you’ve moved out of denial.” He leans back. “I’m happy for you, Malcolm. There really is nothing like the love of a child.”

Malcolm’s jaw tenses. “Not even murder?”

“Oh, come on, son,” Martin says, dejected. “How many times do I have to tell you that I love you and your sister? Your baby now, too. I’ve always been a family man.”

As if knowing they were talking about him, Malcolm can feel his son shift. He takes a deep breath. “That’s why I’m here, Dr. Whitly — family.” He reminds himself that he’s doing this for his son. Even if he ever has another child, he’ll never have to do this again. His heart feels warm at the thought that maybe, just maybe, there will be more in his future, this time with slightly darker skin, with darker eyes maybe. He pushes the thought aside. 

“Ahh.” His father smiles again. “You’re here to ask about the Whitly family medical history. Very thoughtful, my boy.”

There are many things Malcolm wants to say, but all of them would only serve to rile Martin up, which is the last thing he wants to do now that he needs information from him. Instead, he works hard to keep his thoughts from showing.

The slight downtick in Martin’s smile indicates he’s failing.

“I am. I assume you know quite a lot that Mother wouldn’t.”

His father stares at him, considers him. “I do. Jessica never particularly cared for her own family’s history let alone mine. In fact, I went to your grandfather for information when she fell pregnant with you.” He tilts his head. “How about a little game of equivalent exchange?”

Malcolm forcibly relaxes his hands. “What kind of answers do you expect in return, Dr. Whitly?” He knows. His father wants nothing more than to know about the baby, Malcolm’s child, _his grandchild_ , and he feels sick yet unsurprised to realize the man would withhold anything he might need to know for their combined health for it.

“Why, I want to know more about you and my grandchild, dear boy.” Martin plays it up, acting the spurned father desperate to connect with his son. He doesn’t offer up any medical information, doesn’t try to cut a deal, doesn’t budge.

Fine. “Ask away.”

It puts a smile back on Martin’s face. “How far along are you? In weeks, if you don’t mind. I may not have specialized in obstetrics, but I did plenty of research when your mother was carrying you.”

“Twenty-five weeks.” Malcolm doesn’t elaborate. “Is there anything I should know about your family history?”

“Twenty-five,” Martin drawls. “Six months. You should be experiencing all of the big symptoms by now, huh? Backaches, swollen ankles, stretch marks… pregnancy glow.”

He feels sick listening to the sheer glee in his father’s voice. “The deal was an equivalent exchange. I answered your question. Now it’s time you answer mine.”

“Of course, my boy. There’s a history of addiction in the Whitly family. Your grandfather had quite the drinking problem, though you get that from your mother’s side as well.” He hums. “Can’t say I was ever much of a drinker, myself.”

“You had your addictions,” Malcolm says before he can stop himself. He’s thinking about the twenty-three bodies attributed to The Surgeon’s name, the double life he led, the way he hides his rage and urge to kill even now that he’s long since been exposed. It’s not wholly unlike an alcoholic hiding their stash of booze around their house, their car. 

Truthfully, Malcolm isn’t sure it matters whether his slip messed this up. It’s clear his father was planning to take advantage of him not being specific enough to draw this out until he got every single bit of information he wanted. Martin knows damn well that he meant information that would affect his pregnancy directly. “I’m sure you have more questions,” he says, testing.

There’s something in Martin’s eyes. Maybe he’s weighing his options, too. “You’re far enough along to know the sex.” His gaze drifts down to the bump again, cradled fashionably in Malcolm’s new suit. “Is my grandchild a grandson or a granddaughter?”

“Grandson.” He can see the satisfaction settle on his father’s face and can’t help but run a soothing hand along the swell of his son, drawing comfort from him even as he hates that he’s only giving Martin something more to file away. He clears his throat. “Are there any birth defects that run in your family?”

“None,” Martin insists. “Oh, Malcolm — a _son_. Another Whitly man to carry on the name. Unless, of course, you’re giving him the Bright surname.” The deeper tilt his voice takes on makes it clear what he thinks of that. 

Malcolm waits for him to ask an actual question.

“Or will he take his other father’s name?”

“Is that your question?” he says flatly.

“Why not? I’m sure you have plenty more.” Martin rolls the chair a little closer. 

Malcolm swallows. Even the thought of his son being a Lewis is painful. “No. Any history of gestational diabetes?”

“No.” His father leans forward then, smiling slyly, pleased and on the hunt. “You didn’t say he’d be a Bright or a Whitly, either. My boy, are you dating someone else? That _is_ my question this round.”

“Yes,” he admits, because he knows Martin would catch the lie. It doesn’t mean he has to reveal that it’s Gil. His father will ask, surely, but Malcolm only has one more question, which means that the man in front of him won’t be getting more answers. Today, at least. It’s one more day he can stave off the rage that will undoubtedly ensue. There’s no way his father won’t find out about Gil in the long run. “Are there any other pregnancy complications in your family history?”

Martin hums, thoughtful. “A man, if I have to guess. Someone willing to take in a child not their own. Someone you trust to take in your son. Someone you already knew, perhaps?”

“I asked you a question, Dr. Whitly,” Malcolm says sternly.

“Ah, yes, forgive me. The answer is no. Now —”

“ _Now,_ ” he cuts in, standing and easing the wrinkles out of his suit, “I’ll be on my way.”

His father stands, too. It’s abrupt, graceless. “I thought you would be much more thorough, my boy. Are you sure there isn’t anything else you’d like to know?”

Malcolm looks at him this time, feeling off balance but knowing he holds the power here in this moment. “No.” Pivoting, he leaves the cell as calmly as he can. 

He calls a cab.

\----------------------

They fish a body out of the East river. It’s swollen from being in the water, but it hasn’t been in there for long enough to distort the face too badly. It’s a man. All Edrisa can tell them at the scene is that there are bruises on the chest, likely from an attempt at CPR, as well as elsewhere on the body. She promises a better report as soon as she can examine it back at the precinct.

Although Gil’s first instinct is to call Malcolm in, there’s something telling him not to. 

\------------------------

“The bruising isn’t strictly consistent with sexual assault — it’s more similar to rough sex. There weren’t any obvious signs of a struggle,” Edrisa says, the swollen body laid out on one of her tables. “However, when I checked the anal cavity, I found evidence of a very rough clean up, likely postmordem.”

“So we shouldn’t hope for DNA?” JT says.

She perks up. “Actually, there might still be some. It depends on how thorough the probable killer was. In the meantime, I’ll run a tox screen.”

“You think he was drugged,” Gil says, feeling detached and cold and empty. His bad feeling is only growing, and it’s strong enough now that he would confidently bet ketamine will show up on that tox screen. 

“It would explain the lack of defensive wounds.” Edrisa walks back up by the victim’s chest. “The bruising here as well. It could indicate the killer didn’t plan on the victim dying.” She hovers her hands over where the bruises are. “They tried CPR, but it wasn’t helping. They became desperate.” 

“And when it didn’t work, they tried to clean him up and dump him,” Dani adds darkly, obviously disgusted. 

Gil sets them all to work. Edrisa knows exactly what she has to do, so he leaves her to it, but Dani and JT follow him back to their desks, where he assigns them different tasks.

“JT, I need you to work on identifying our victim. Edrisa should have fingerprints for you as soon as she can.” He turns to Dani. “Dani, I want you on missing persons reports, just in case our vic has already made it on the list.”

“And you, Boss?”

He sighs. “I’m going to see if there are any cases with victims alive or dead that we might be able to link to this one.” Gil’s gut is telling him he already knows of one, that even if there’s no evidence from it to compare to anything Edrisa might find on their vic, there’s still a form of DNA to compare to. 

He’s very glad Malcolm didn’t come in today.

\---------------------

When Gil finally opens the door, when he finally is able to kick off his shoes and shuck his coat, he walks into a kitchen that smells like home. Not just any home, either, but his childhood home, where his Ama cooked constantly to introduce his children to the food _he_ grew up with. 

Malcolm is at the bar, a styrofoam container in front of him, two more off to the side. He’s picking at the first one, spearing what looks like pieces of tocino on a plastic fork. He eases off the stool when the door closes. 

Gil is speechless.

Unlike the ill-fitting pieces Malcolm has been wearing, he’s now clad in something new, something obviously tailored, and it doesn’t just fit, it accentuates. He’s just as handsome as he was before. There’s just something more about him now.

Striding forward, Gil kisses him gently yet firmly. He wants to help him out of the suit. He wants to guide him back to the bed and show him what he thinks. He _wants_.

But this isn’t the time. He doesn’t want Malcolm on the case for obvious reasons, but he’s not stupid. Keeping the existence of the case from a profiler with a mind like Malcolm's would end very badly, which is why he knows he has to tell him. He has to tell him everything, preliminary facts _and_ suspicions.

“Gil?” Malcolm’s tired face is right in front of his, his eyes creased in worry. 

He doesn’t dally. He lays it all out. “We pulled a body out of the East river today. There are signs of sexual assault, and Edrisa believes the vic was drugged.”

Malcolm pales, obviously coming to the same conclusion Gil did. “Ketamine?”

“We won’t know until the tox screen comes back.”

“But you think it will come back positive,” Malcolm says quietly. 

Gil swallows. “Yes.”

Pulling away, the younger man makes for the bedroom, where he quickly but carefully removes his new suit, replacing it with one of Gil’s shirts and a pair of his own pajama pants. 

“Malcolm?”

“Let’s eat on the couch again.” He gathers up the takeout containers and glances over at Gil. His eyes are red, shining with building tears. “Please?”

Gil nods. “Of course.”

They curl up on the couch, eating Filipino food with plastic utensils, barely paying attention to the movie on the screen.


	18. Chapter 18

## Week 26

The weight of the pending results of the tox screen hangs heavy around them for days. There are less smiles, less laughs. Most of their time in the loft is spent pressed up against each other in a show of quiet, somber comfort. 

Malcolm’s nightmares increase. He wakes up sobbing and screaming in Gil’s arms almost every night, Jack’s name carving its way up his throat. Gil holds and soothes him the best he can, and then Malcolm gets out of bed to walk around aimlessly, to calm the racing of his heart, the movements of his son. He insists Gil not join him, that he go back to bed.

The only reason Malcolm continues to _try_ to sleep is his son. 

Baby Bright is also the reason he eats. He feels weak every time he catches sight of Gil’s worrying, the concern writing itself across his face with every line and crease, but even that can’t make the nausea go away. Instead, he concentrates on getting in everything his son needs. He refuses to let the specter of Jack Lewis starve his child. 

Gil makes him simple meals, bland meals. Not even bacon is particularly appetizing at the moment. He coaxes his pregnant partner through finishing each meal, and more often than not, they spend time just touching afterwards. Sometimes it’s a lengthy hug, sometimes Malcolm’s head on Gil’s shoulder, sometimes both of them touching the swell of his stomach. 

It’s a relief when Edrisa calls. 

Whatever she has to say won’t erase the fear or inject instant happiness into their lives. If their victim tested positive for ketamine, they could be connected to Jack, though it’s not a certainty. If they didn’t, Malcolm is already worked up, his subconscious already working overtime to remind him of what happened, what _could_ happen. 

Both of them are at the precinct, so they, JT, and Dani all head down to the morgue to talk to Edrisa. 

Malcolm smiles weakly when she greets him with a grin.

“The tox screen came back.” She stops. “Well, obviously, that’s what I called you down for,” she says sheepishly. 

Gil aches to put an arm around Malcolm, but his partner is settled in the corner, leaning against the wall. “Edrisa.”

“Right.” Coming up to the table with the body, she rests her hands on the edge. “Our victim tested positive for ketamine. An absurdly high dose of it. I’m certain that’s what led to his death.” 

It’s difficult not to look back at Malcolm to see how he’s taking the news. They both agreed they wouldn’t let the team know about his assault unless necessary. Gil puts his hands on his hips so that they don’t form fists. “Were you able to recover any… DNA?”

Edrisa shakes her head. “Unfortunately, no.”

The door to the morgue slams behind the profiler. 

“But I can try harder?” Edrisa says uncertainly.

“I trust you would have found anything there was to find,” Gil tells her, every fiber of his being screaming for him to go after Malcolm. “Excuse me.”

The first place he looks is the bathroom. Malcolm is washing his hands, his face pale and his hands shaking under the wonky spray of the precinct sink. 

Gil hands him two paper towels.

“Thank you,” he says softly. 

“What’s going through your head, city boy?” He knows better than to ask if he’s okay. Hell, Gil doubts he himself is okay right now. 

Malcolm laughs a little. “What isn’t?” He swallows and winces.

Reaching into his pocket, Gil pulls out a tin of mints and offers one.

Malcolm takes it. “You know I can’t be on this case.” His gaze is focused on the wall just to the left of Gil’s head.

“ _I_ shouldn’t be on this case,” Gil admits. He really shouldn’t. He’s too close to Malcolm, too close to what happened, and that could jeopardize the arrest. Technically, Dani and JT should be pulled off, too, even though they wouldn’t know why.

“But you won’t be recognized.” Malcolm grimaces, tucking a loose hair behind his ear. It likely fell while he was losing his breakfast. “We can’t risk him remembering me.” His voice is both angry and resigned. He wants to take Jack down himself, but he can’t, not without potentially messing up the case or at the very least, messing up himself. He _can’t_. 

Gil nods shallowly. “Do you want me to take you home, kid?” 

“I don’t want to be alone,” Malcolm says and finally meets his eyes. It’s even more obvious now that he’s on the verge of crying. “Please.”

“Go up to my office and order lunch for the team on that fancy phone of yours. It’s JT’s time to pick up.” Leaning in slow, Gil pecks him on the lips, knowing neither of them want a deeper kiss now. “I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

“I love you,” Malcolm whispers.

“I love you, too, kid.”

## Week 27

The problem with taking Malcolm off the case was that it meant he couldn’t go into the precinct. Facts, pictures, speculation — all of it was up around the conference room they worked in. The team talked about the case wherever they happened to be. No, the best way to keep him from being involved was for him to stay away. 

Both Gil and Malcolm worried about that. Gil sent him home with a stack of cold cases to work through, but he had to work on them alone, only Sunshine and his unborn son to keep him company. If his thoughts started to tilt towards Jack, if all of his concerns piled up until it was too much, if he couldn’t keep the worst ones at bay, there would be no one there to help him out of it. He also couldn’t keep calling Gil. Although they tried to check in frequently, it didn’t mean that he was free to take a call at all times.

Every night, he came home to Malcolm. He asked him about the cases he worked on, about how many times the baby kicked or shifted. He tried not to give away the growing despair he felt while faced with their newest case, and yet he was all too aware who he was dealing with.

Gil’s disappointment added to his. Soon enough, the nights they could spend together wouldn’t be enough to even him out.

Tonight, Malcolm takes one look at him and furrows his brows. One hand rises to land on his bump. “What happened?”

Gil sighs. “Malcolm,” he starts softly, “do you remember where you woke up?”

With a flinch, he tells him.

“That’s what I figured.” His expression is somber, tired, pained. 

“It’s him,” Malcolm says. “It has to be.” He stumbles back, his free hand shooting back to find his balance using the bar. He sits on one of the stools blindly and curls up as much as he can there. He’s not crying, not yet, but his hands are trembling and his eyes are wide. In an attempt to curb it, he clenches his fists, short nails biting into his palms. 

Moving slowly, telegraphing his movements, Gil coaxes him off the stool and supports him. “Let’s move to the couch, kid.” He makes sure the kid is settled first before he sits next to him.

Malcolm tucks his feet underneath him and leans into his side with no hesitation. “Why can’t this be _over_?” he says, voice painfully small. 

“I’m going to wrap this up as quickly as I can,” Gil promises. He lays a kiss on the crown of his partner’s head. “But that means I need to ask some tough questions.”

“Okay.” Lacing their fingers together, Malcolm takes a deep breath. “Whatever you need, Gil. Just don’t drag this out. Please.”

Gil mentally plans out which questions he absolutely needs answers to. They’ve already managed to track down the hotel, but if Jack has this down to a science the way Gil suspects he does, then the victim met him at a bar just like Malcolm. Hopefully they can get a better shot of him there. At the hotel, they managed to get a rough description from the man who rented out the room and that was it. Jack paid in cash, and the only cameras they caught him on did not provide a clear enough image of his face. All they had was a blurry figure half-dragging another. If they could show him leaving with a bar with the victim, they might nail him. “I need the name of the bar.”

Malcolm nods against him and offers it readily. “I think he might be friends with the bartender,” he says quietly. 

Gil notes down everything Malcolm gives him. 

\--------------------

It’s a rough night, unsurprisingly. The younger man is up and down, eyes stinging and throat raw, and like usual, he insists Gil go back to bed.

But this time Gil refuses outright and sticks to it. He wraps an arm around Malcolm while they wander around the apartment. He fetches him water and whatever foods he thinks he might be able to handle. He curls up on the couch with him and Sunshine. 

He makes a decision. 

Around seven in the morning, Gil manages to get Malcolm back into bed, cuffed and exhausted, just for a nap. He waits until his breathing evens out, his body relaxes. Then, he pulls it out — the ring. It’s not how he wanted to do this. He’s already messed this up once, and it’s entirely possible he will mess it up again, but he needs to try. He wants to give both of them as much security as possible. 

Knowing that Malcolm was so terrified, he’s been holding back as much of his own fear as possible. Malcolm is too close to this. If Jack gets a whiff of his involvement and looks deeper, he’ll find out about the baby. The mere thought of it makes Gil feel like screaming. He would, if not for Malcolm sleeping across the loft. 

Instead, he pulls out the pancake mix. Plain pancakes are bland enough without syrup, he figures, and so his partner might still be able to get them down. He puts bacon on, too. Malcolm hasn’t been able to stomach it for days, but that doesn’t mean Gil can’t hope. 

The smell wakes the pregnant man. He pads into the kitchen and sits at the bar, eyes rimmed red and hair sticking up. “You don’t have to spoil me,” he says weakly as Gil sets a plate of hot pancakes in front of him.

Gil joins him with his own plate. The ring box he palms in the hand farthest away from him. “If I don’t, who will?” he jokes. “Malcolm, I suggested we get married a few weeks ago.”

Ripping a small piece off of the top pancake, Malcolm eyes him warily. “Gil…”

“Now I’m asking.” He sets the ring box between them. “It’s earlier than I planned, yes, but I think this would be good for both of us.”

“You haven’t been wearing your ring,” Malcolm observes.

Gil smiles. “Jackie loved us, kid. She’ll always be a part of my life, just like she’ll always be a part of yours.”

“I miss her.” He takes the ring box and flicks it open. Inside is a thin band inlaid with a ring of diamonds. It’s neither boring nor flashy, and although he knows he wouldn’t wear it during cases, he can see it on his finger otherwise. He swallows. “Gil, if the circumstances were different, I’d say no, but I —” A sob breaks through. He doesn’t want to think about Jack, he can’t. He wants to think about the man in front of him and only him.

Gil pulls him into as much of an embrace as he can while they’re still sitting on stools. “I know, city boy. I don’t want you to regret this, either.” There won’t be any regrets on his side. He knew that Jackie would be it for him after a few months, and the same certainty rests in his gut in regards to the man in his arms. He already loves the baby between them, too.

“I won’t,” Malcolm says, muffled. When he pulls away, there are wet spots on Gil’s shirt and his eyes are redder than they were before. He tries to pick up the ring, but his hands are shaking too badly.

Gently, Gil brushes his hands aside and picks it up himself. He eases the ring onto Malcolm’s finger, leaning in for a soft kiss, parting lips with a swipe of his tongue, trying to put as much of his love into the action as he can.


	19. Chapter 19

## Week 28

They keep it quiet. Now is not the time for a big affair, a wedding with all the bells and whistles. Both of them are too tired — mentally and physically — to really enjoy any part of the planning process anyway, although the anticipation is still there. 

As soon as the license comes through, Malcolm and his son will have an added layer of protection. 

The team isn’t much closer to pinning Jack. Gil can’t necessarily tell them where to look, not without drawing suspicion on himself. Not without jeopardizing the case. Instead, he makes the logical leap of having them all look at security footage from bars. There are plenty in the city, but he quietly puts the right one towards the top of the list, ensuring that the case isn’t drawn out forever. Now they just need to get the warrants.

He doesn’t tell Malcolm this. He doesn’t want to give him false hope that Jack will be caught tomorrow or the day after that or even the week after, so he just assures him that he’s doing what he can.

Malcolm kisses him in response. He’s grown more comfortable again since their engagement, his eyes sliding shut as he tentatively explores Gil’s mouth, keeping it slow and soft. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me, city boy,” Gil says before dipping back in for a shorter kiss. He wishes he could be doing more. “How’s the license coming?”

Malcolm smiles, and it even reaches his eyes this time. “We can get married as soon as we want.” 

“I can take a long lunch break tomorrow.” With a smile, Gil licks his lips, chasing the taste of his partner. He huffs a laugh. “JT and Dani have been trying to get me out earlier each day anyway. I’m pretty sure they think I’m neglecting you.”

Neither of them (or Edrisa) have been subtle about asking after Malcolm. He’s brought more of Tally’s homecooking back to the loft on two occasions so far, and his medical examiner is always ready with a new fruit or vegetable to compare the baby to. This week, it’s an eggplant. Dani even glances at his ring finger every so often. She’s going to flip when he comes back to the precinct wearing his new band. Under different circumstances, Gil would have all three of them come as witnesses, but he and Malcolm agreed to keep this as private as possible. There would be time for a more sentimental wedding after the case is solved, the baby born.

“Tomorrow then,” Malcolm says as he leans into his fiance. 

\----------

Malcolm tells himself it isn’t a big deal. It becomes his mantra for the morning. They’re going to go to the courthouse, sign some papers, and that’s it. It’s not like he’s dreamed of getting married all his life, either. Any notion he might have had about marriage was dashed the day his father was arrested, the day that every friend he ever had turned against him in unison with the city. His marriage to Gil isn’t a regular one anyway. They wouldn’t be walking down any aisles for years if not for his son or Jack. 

But still, he can’t help but pick out the best of his newly tailored suits, one that he ordered in secret the day after they were engaged. It’s no tuxedo. It’s a crisp navy blue set with a pristine white button up and a matching tie. He was tempted to get a white suit, knowing that Gil would get a kick out of it and that his mother might even suggest it seriously, but he couldn’t. He wanted this day to be as lowkey and low stress as they planned. 

He slides the knot of the tie up to his neck, snug but not too snug. His hands smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in his jacket. He’s already applied just a touch of makeup to lessen the exhaustion on his face, and his hair is slicked back as usual. 

He’s ready. 

All he has to do now is wait for Gil. His fiance called not long ago to let him know he was on his way, insisting on picking Malcolm up himself, knowing that he would be leagues more at ease in the car with him than in a cab. Why shouldn’t they see each other on the way if they’re already eschewing tradition? 

His cell phone rings. 

“I’m outside, kid,” Gil says as soon as he picks up. There’s a slight tremor in his voice, a hint of nerves — something most people wouldn’t be able to pick up on.

Malcolm feels it, too. “I’ll be right out.” He slips a coat on and locks the door.

\---------------

Before they can enter the courthouse, Gil grabs his arm with a gentle hand. “I know this is not how either of wanted this —”

“I have no regrets,” Malcolm promises firmly. He lays a hand on Gil’s face and stretches up to kiss him, sighing as two hands support him immediately. He leaves it there when he sinks back down. “Do you?”

Gil puts his hand over Malcolm’s. “No.”

They walk in together. 

Malcolm pulls out the marriage license when asked, and from there, it’s fairly straightforward. Shedding his coat, he smoothes out his suit once more. He glances over at his fiance, whose dark eyes trail over him.

Although Gil is dressed in the same turtleneck and slacks he left the loft in that morning, he made sure to choose clothes he knew his fiance appreciated him in. Still, he feels underdressed as he takes in Malcolm. He can barely take his eyes off of him during the short ceremony, can barely remember to let his new husband slip the plain band on his ring finger. It takes all of his willpower to keep their first married kiss short and sweet.

When they get in the car, they don’t have to hold back. Gil drags him into a prolonged kiss, sliding his tongue past his husband’s lips, swallowing the moan the action invokes. There are so many emotions warring within him. Joy now that they’re married. Satisfaction at how Malcolm melts into his mouth. Relief with the knowledge that he legally stands between this man and his son and the monster that calls himself Jack Lewis. 

Malcolm’s flushed when they finally separate. “You have to go back soon,” he reminds him breathlessly. 

Nodding, Gil clears his throat and starts up the car. “Lunch? I’ll eat at the loft with you before I head out again.”

“Actually, I was thinking we might go to the diner.” He buckles himself in. “I’m in the mood for some tocino.”

It brings a smile to Gil’s face. If Malcolm has his appetite back, he’ll gladly buy him all the tocino he wants. 

\--------------

The same woman who took their orders the first time is behind the counter again. She looks delighted to see them. “Tocino?” she says cheekily. 

Wrapping an arm around his now husband, Gil nods. “And two plates of chicken adobo.” He goes to pull out his wallet, but a hand stops him.

Malcolm hands her his card instead. 

“Oh,” she gasps at the sight of his ring — a ring he was most definitely not wearing the last time they were there. “Congratulations.” She winks as she swipes the card through the machine. “I’ll bring your food out soon.”

They settle at a table with actual chairs this time, Malcolm sighing as he sits down. His son isn’t terribly large, but he’s been feeling the extra weight on his compact frame lately, and the seat is much appreciated. Gil pulls his chair over to sit next to him, linking their hands together. 

“How do you feel, kid?” Gil says, smiling softly. He strokes the profiler’s hand with his thumb. 

Malcolm hums. “Happy?” Looking over at his husband, he smiles self-deprecatingly. “Is that weird?”

“Not at all.” Gil brings their hands to his mouth and kisses the paler of the two.

A throat clearing startles them. The woman from the counter sets their food down on the table, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards. There are, of course, two plates of chicken, one for each of them, and a heaping serving of tocino, which she places in front of Malcolm. She also gives them each a small plate with a block of something. Both are mostly off-white, but the tops are golden, a few caramelized spots darkening the surface. “On the house,” she tells them slyly before walking away.

“What is it?” Malcolm whispers, eyeing up the slab behind his tocino. It doesn’t look _bad_. It’s just not familiar.

Gil squeezes his hand before pulling away. “Cassava cake. I haven’t had it in years. Jackie made it for me special sometimes,” he says fondly. “It’s sweet, city boy. You’ll like it.”

(And if it feels a little bit like a message, like love and acceptance from someone who was so integral to both of their lives, they leave it unspoken but understood.)

\-----------------

When Gil makes it back to the precinct, he’s greeted with a raised eyebrow from Dani and a low whistle from JT. 

“Finally,” his youngest detective says with a snort. “You could have invited us, though.”

JT puts a hand over his heart. “Tally’s going to be heartbroken.” 

“Don’t you two have work to do?” Gil says wryly, grinning. He shakes his head. “We’re having a bigger ceremony after the baby is born. You’ll both be on the list then. Edrisa, too.”

Dani leans back in her chair. “How is he?” 

“Tired.” Malcolm was. After the quick marriage and lunch — which was richer food than he’d eaten in a few weeks and in bigger quantities now that he managed to have an appetite again — his new husband was ready to lay down for a while, maybe go through a cold case or two. He wasn’t in the shape to hang out at the precinct while Gil and the team work on Jack’s case. “I dropped him off at the loft. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a visit later.”

“And get in the way of the wedding night? No thank you,” JT jokes. 

Truthfully, Gil doubts there will be a traditional wedding night. Even with the newfound ease that came with their engagement and marriage, he doesn’t want to push Malcolm into sex. Especially not after the recent setback that was this case looming over them. His detectives don’t know that, don’t know about the actual circumstances that led to the profiler’s pregnancy or their relationship. 

And he’s not going to be the one to reveal that.

His plan for the night is a simple dinner and whatever classic movie is on when they get to the couch. He just wants to spend time with his husband, maybe share a few kisses while they’re curled up. 

First he needs to go through security footage.

\--------------

When Gil gets back to the loft that evening, Malcolm is at the stove, carefully laying chicken thighs into a pan. He washes his hands and wipes them off on a towel before opening the oven to stir something.

“It smells good,” the older man says, surprised, as he toes off his shoes. “You didn’t have to cook, kid.”

“I wanted to.” He really did. Gil cooks for him all the time. He feels so cooped up now that it sounded like a great idea. He can make _some_ things. Malcolm leans against the counter, one hand resting on his bump. Shortly after being dropped off, he changed into soft, loose clothes. His feet are bare. He feels comfortable. “I didn’t think you’d be back yet.” 

Gil stands in front of him and gently lays a hand on top of his. When his husband gives him a wane smile, he leans down to kiss him. “Dani and JT insisted. What’s in the oven?”

“Baby potatoes and asparagus.” Pushing off from the counter, he brushes past Gil to check the chicken. He doesn’t look at him when he speaks next. “How did they take it?” He’s glad he didn’t go back to the precinct with him. It’s bad enough that he’ll likely be the one answering to his family for their surprise wedding. His mother is going to be _devastated_. 

A warm weight drapes across his back as Gil comes up behind him, resting his head on the shoulder in front of him, arms wrapping around him. “They wanted to be there,” he murmurs. He can feel Malcolm shiver at their proximity. “But they understood. I told them there would be another ceremony.”

Flipping the chicken thighs, Malcolm allows himself to relax a little. If JT and Dani aren’t mad, then it’s one less thing to worry about. He can only hope that his sister and mother will be mollified with an actual celebration at a later date.

“It’ll be okay,” Gil promises, still embracing him.

He bites his lip and nods.


	20. Chapter 20

## 29 Weeks

As the days go by without much progress in the case, Malcolm gets more and more antsy. He wants to be back in the precinct, seven months pregnant or not, and the handful of times he’s been able to pop in for lunch with Gil and the team has not been enough to scratch the itch. He’s _bored_. 

His husband hasn’t said a word about the case, of course.

But Malcolm isn’t stupid. He knows Gil. He can tell that he’s frustrated, that he feels powerless, that he’s getting impatient. Every single time he comes home from work, he's tense, his jaw clenched, his brow furrowed. Bringing attention to it only fills his husband’s eyes with guilt. Apparently Gil can’t understand that Malcolm doesn’t blame him, that Malcolm understands that crimes aren’t always solved in an afternoon. He’s terrified, yes, but he’s worked on these kinds of cases before.

The only thing that seems to relieve the boredom, the anxiety, is retail therapy. (Part of him takes comfort in knowing that, at least in this way, he’s more like his mother than his father.)

He’s barely bought anything for his son. First on his list is a cradle. He knows his mother still has his and Ainsley’s — her own as well, because it was passed down from Milton to Milton. His baby _isn’t_ a Milton. His son will be an Arroyo, just like Malcolm himself now. He’s in the process of getting his information updated, but his son will be an Arroyo from the moment the birth certificate is filled out, and Malcolm wants things to be different for him. So he orders the first cradle to catch his eye. It’s a sturdy wooden thing with storage underneath and delicate carvings of animals on the end pieces. He leaves the space for optional personalization blank. It goes in the cart.

Unless they move, there isn’t a specific room to make into a nursery, which means he doesn’t bother with paint or wallpaper. Toys, pacifiers, blankets, bottles… _those_ they will need. He places a fairly substantial order.

Malcolm’s moved on to clothes by the time Gil walks through the door. He shuts his laptop, knowing that his husband would be horrified by the amount of money he’s willing to drop on a onesie. He frowns as he picks up on the underlying agitation written all over him. 

“Do you mind if we order out tonight, kid?” Gil rubs a hand across his face, looking every bit his age and then some. 

Malcolm coaxes him down for a kiss and takes his coat. “We have leftovers, remember? Go get changed. I’ll heat something up.” He’s not as good at this as Gil is, but he has to try.

“Malcolm —”

“ _Gil._ ” He gives his husband his most stubborn look. 

And so Gil, too mentally and physically exhausted to argue, sighs and drags himself to the bedroom. 

Thankfully, they do have easy food in the fridge. Malcolm pulls out a casserole Tally sent over via JT and gives it a quick sniff. It smells pretty good cold. Checking the note on top, he preheats the oven and sets the casserole dish on the counter. He sits back on the couch while he waits. His son shifts and kicks as if trying to soothe his stress. With a fond huff, he puts a hand right where he felt the movement.

When Gil comes back, he joins him without a word. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“I know.” He knows his husband won’t tell him what’s bothering him. He knows he’s just worried for Malcolm, for his — _their_ — son. He knows that Gil doesn’t mean to bring it back home. This case is wearing on the both of them

They try not to let it affect the rest of the evening. 

\------------------

It’s JT who finds it. There’s a clear shot of Jack walking into the bar Malcolm named, alone but confident. About twenty minutes pass before he strolls out supporting their vic, who stumbles and shakes his head, who doesn’t look coherent but could pass for drunk if you didn’t know what to look for. 

From there, they’re able to find traffic cam footage of his car and more importantly, his license plate. Dani runs it while Gil stands back, something like hope welling up in his chest.

It comes back as registered to Jack Lewis. His record is fairly clean. There are no indications that he’s ever been anywhere near drugs, let alone killed anyone. 

It’s still damning. Gil sends his detectives to pick the man up. He doesn’t trust himself not to do something, not to give his hand too early, not when Jack could potentially find his connection to Malcolm and use it to get the charges dropped. No, he has to restrain himself. 

He keeps busy by going through the hotel footage again. Although his team was plenty thorough, now they have more information. They know what Jack was wearing, what his car looks like, what the victim was wearing when he left the bar, and if Gil can tie Jack to the blurry man on the hotel camera, their case will be even tighter. He meticulously combs through the footage for anything and everything they can use. He notes down timestamps, saves stills. 

An hour passes this way.

JT walks into the precinct with a tight grip on their killer, his face set coldly as Jack glares, looking disheveled. He nods at Gil and veers off to lock him up. Dani trails behind the two of them but splits off to join the Lieutenant. She’s sneering still, so disgusted she can’t hold it back, doesn’t even care to. 

Gil tamps down the satisfaction he feels at seeing Jack cuffed. “He gave you trouble?” 

“Of course he did.” Dani rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “We were ‘disrupting his business.’ We’re nailing him to the wall, right?”

“We will,” he promises. He told Malcolm he would. He’s not about to go against his word.

\--------------

At first, Gil lets JT take a crack at him. The detective was the one to drag him in, after all, and they both know he can be intimidating when he wants to be. And with a rapist turned serial killer? He _wants_ to be. JT pulls Jack into an interrogation room, cuffs him to the table, and looms over him from across the way, a manilla folder in hand. 

Gil watches from the other side of the mirror. His hands are fists in his pockets, his jaw set and teeth clenched. 

“This is your chance to make it easier on both of us,” JT says flatly. He doesn't give a single thing away. “Confess, and this won’t be dragged out.”

“Why would I confess? I didn’t do anything.” Jack tugs at the cuffs, face pinched. He’s still dressed up in a sharp suit.

The detective shakes his head and steps forward. “Look man, we didn’t bring you in on a whim. Think about your situation.”

“I didn’t kill anyone!”

“No, you killed this man.” Opening the folder, he takes out a photo of the victim’s face and slams it down on the table between them. “But first, you drugged and assaulted him.”

“I want my lawyer,” Jack hisses, eyes flickering down to the gruesome image in front of him. 

And Gil can’t take it anymore. Stalking out of the observation room, he raps on the door with a white-knuckled fist. 

JT gives him a thoughtful look, the moment tense until he nods. “Go at it,” he says before stepping aside to make way for the Lieutenant. He stays in the room.

“Mr. Lewis,” Gil says. He looks him over for the first time in person, taking in the way he holds himself, the expression on his face. Maybe it’s just the little things Malcolm let slip about him, but the man _looks_ like a scumbag. “My detectives told you what they were arresting you for.” A statement, not a question.

“Right in front of his coworkers,” JT adds. 

Gil keeps his eyes on Jack. “We have plenty of evidence. We know where you took the victim. We know where you picked him up. You’re only making this worse for yourself by denying it.”

“Lawyer. _Now_.” 

Every inch of him is screaming to haul the fucker up, slam him into the wall. _Demand_ that he confess. And yet, he can’t, especially not if the man’s lawyer comes in right away. Gil pounds a fist down on the table in an attempt to shake off the aggression, the pure loathing coursing through him. He bites back a grin at the way Jack flinches. “Take him to a holding cell,” he says, turning to JT. “And let him call his lawyer.”

\----------------

Dani takes one look at him and herds him into his office. “Call your husband. Pace. Whatever you need to do to _not_ look like you’re a second away from strangling our suspect.” She shuts the door tightly as she leaves. 

What he feels like doing is throwing his Yankees mug across the room. Maybe seeing it shatter against the wall will help. Or maybe it will only make him angrier. He sighs and rubs his brow, contemplating calling Malcolm like his detective suggested. The problem is that he hates bringing this back home. It’s so much tension, so much frustration, and he doesn’t want to tell his husband what’s going on until there’s something worth telling.

He pulls out his cell phone and flicks through his contacts, hovering over Malcolm’s name. The profiler is still listed as _Malcolm Bright_. Gil sits on the edge of his desk. He taps the contact and chooses edit. 

Setting it beside him, he watches the screen go dark, the last app open contacts, with _Malcolm Arroyo_ written plainly across the top. 

\------------------

JT opens the door and knocks on the frame. “The guy’s lawyer wants to talk to us, Boss.”

Gil nods. “Let’s hear what bullshit he has to offer.” He follows the detective to one of the conference rooms.

There are three people already there — Jack, still cuffed and glaring, the man who must be his lawyer, and Dani, who watches over them with her arms crossed and her face stone. JT closes the door as soon as they’re all in the room.

“Lieutenant Arroyo,” the lawyer says neutrally, “I hear you have damning evidence, but no one has thought to tell me what that is exactly.”

“We have your client with the victim in two separate places. Both times it’s obvious the victim was under the influence of something.” His gaze is unwavering. He refuses to give this man anything. 

The lawyer smirks. “I wouldn’t say that’s _damning_. None of that is enough to connect my client to a murder, Lieutenant.”

But Gil matches his expression, his eyes drifting to watch Jack’s face. “It was enough to get a warrant to search Mr. Lewis’ home, office, and vehicle.” He made sure those came in before Dani and JT arrested him. He won’t be letting Jack slip through his fingers. Officers were already there searching, though they would be keeping anyone out until Major Crimes got there to do one last sweep.

The fucker pales. It’s _oh_ so satisfying to watch. “I’d like to talk to my lawyer in private.”

“We’ll be right outside,” Gil says, ushering his detectives out without hesitation.

Ten minutes later, the lawyer beckons them back inside. 

Instead of the glare he sported when they first went in, Jack is staring at the wall with a blank but ashen expression.

Gil holds back his smile. 

“My client is willing to offer information on his accomplice in exchange for you dropping the murder charge,” the lawyer tells them.

“And why should we drop it?” Dani gives them a look.

“Because my client isn’t responsible for the murder itself. His accomplice was the one who caused the overdose.”

It’s not ideal. Gil would rather get him on murder, too. He’s been a cop long enough to know that rape charges won’t send him to jail for nearly long enough, and they can’t charge him for multiple accounts. They only have evidence enough for one. 

He needs to take the deal, however, because Malcolm wasn’t able to give much of a description of the bartender, and even if he could have, they can’t say for sure it was him anyway. If he accepts the lawyer’s terms — Jack’s terms — they’d get both of them at once. He grits his teeth. His superiors wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t, truthfully. They let him get away with a lot, namely Malcolm, but only because he constantly proves that it gives him an edge, increases his solve rate.

Dragging a case out would be the opposite. 

“I’ll accept your offer on a few conditions.” He feels dirty. He feels like he’s doing wrong by Malcolm. He pushes on. “Mr. Lewis stays in our custody for the time being. If we discover he left anything out or lied about this accomplice, the deal is off, and we _will_ charge him for murder. Lastly, I want this in writing. Your client won’t be worming his way out of this.”

Silently, he apologizes to his husband. He apologizes to their victim. He apologizes to anyone else Jack has assaulted, because he’s sure there are several. 

The lawyer speaks with his client in hushed tones before clearing his throat. “Our offer stands. We accept your conditions, Lieutenant.”

Gil nods and asks his detectives to stay while Jack and his lawyer write up their agreement. He leaves the room, walking to the precinct bathrooms. He enters the first stall and loses his lunch.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I have a two part author's note here. PLEASE read both parts!
> 
> 1) You may have noticed I put comments on moderated sometime after posting chapter 20. I'm not going to get too into it, but **I'm not looking for criticism, constructive or otherwise.** Fic writing is a relaxing hobby for me, and unsolicited criticism messes with my passion for it. **Please don't offer unsolicited advice in the comments.** I hope this doesn't stop the bulk of you from continuing to comment the nice things you have. 
> 
> 2) **This is a heavy chapter.** It deals mostly with what they found while searching Jack's house. I know the rest of the story hasn't exactly been all sunshine and roses, but still. I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable or worse. If you are worried it might be too rough for you, I will put more details in the end notes.

When he, Dani, and JT finally join the search of Jack’s house, he’s glad his stomach is empty. The officers already there have covered quite a lot of the property so far, and they have plenty to show the Major Crimes team. 

The worst part might be the fact that none of it was particularly hidden. Gil would call it ego, but truthfully, Jack had good cause to think he continue to get away with his assaults. If not for Malcolm, it’s possible they still wouldn’t know who to look for. If not for Jack’s apparent slip up, they wouldn’t have anything to get him on. 

No, Gil realizes as he listens to an officer, bile threatening to rise up his still sore throat, the real worst part is what Malcolm _couldn’t_ tell him. 

Neatly labeled with dates in the bottom of one of Jack’s dressers are close to thirty bags. In each bag is a pair of underwear — boxers, briefs, boxer briefs, even what looks like a thong. 

Malcolm’s must be in there somewhere. Gil restrains himself from searching, desperately hoping that there’s nothing else that could give away the one thing Malcolm has tried so hard to hide from those close to him. He can’t, won’t tamper with evidence. Especially not in this case. 

But, of course, that’s not all. 

Jack’s home office is fairly standard. There’s a computer, a printer, and plenty of files. There’s also a photo printer and album tucked away in one of the bottom drawers. The album is full of photos of men — specifically men with dazed, pleading faces and no clothes. Each one has a series of shots dedicated to them. The back of every photo is labeled with a date and a name.

Gil has to excuse himself for a few minutes. He sits inside his car and slams his fist down on his thigh, holding back a yell. He has no doubt that there are several pictures of Malcolm in that album. While he and the team work on identifying each victim, they’re going to come across them. Dani and JT will find out. 

Malcolm… will be devastated. 

His first instinct is to pull out his phone and call, give him a warning, a heads up. He can’t. Instead, he takes four successive deep breaths before he rejoins his detectives.

\-----------------

It’s another day, and that means that Malcolm wanders around the loft, alternating between working on cold cases and scrolling through page after page of expensive baby items. Not enough time has passed for his prior purchases to arrive yet. In the back of his mind, he can admit that he’s nesting. He feels part cooped up and part reluctant to leave the space he’s modifying for his son. 

Either way, he’s eager for Gil to come home. 

Malcolm lays a few strips of thick cut bacon down in a pan and washes his hands. His son kicks as if he knows what they’re about to eat, and Malcolm smiles lightly. It’s the biggest thing getting him through this case. Gil, too. They both cling to the life within him, using his son to buoy them through all of the fear, anger, and anxiety. 

He flips the bacon. Putting down the tongs he used to do so, he pulls his shirt up and places a hand on his bump. He’s been doing this all week. Skin to skin contact. His son loves it, too, kicking and shifting whenever he detects a hand, creating a loop between them and serving to lessen the feeling of isolation. It’s almost odd to think that he couldn’t bring himself to do this weeks ago. 

Plating up the bacon, he takes a seat at the bar. Barstools certainly aren’t the most comfortable seat now, but it’s a relief to be off of his feet. He checks his phone while he waits for his food to cool. 

His mother, unsurprisingly, has called. The last time he picked up, she interrogated him about his birth plan. He’s taking a break from her calls.

There are also a few texts from Ainsley. Most of them are links to cute things she’s found for her ‘favorite’ nephew, though one is a suggestion to meet up. Not for coffee, not right now for him. _A bite_ , she says. He asks her when she’ll be free.

The only notification he doesn’t bother with are the voicemails. He has four, all from Claremont. He hasn’t gone back to see his father in the last month, and he’d prefer not to let him in again, not as he gets closer and closer to his due date.

Malcolm’s eating his bacon when Gil comes through the door. He’s tearing it apart piece by piece, placing each one into his mouth, not bothered in the least by his greasy fingers. He begins to muster up a smile for his husband until he sees his face. It drops. “Gil?”

“Hey kid,” Gil says quietly. “We need to talk.”

Swallowing, Malcolm pushes his plate forward and eases off the barstool to wash his hands. His appetite is gone. Whatever Gil has to say won’t be pleasant. That much he can guess. He lets his husband usher him to the couch. 

Without a word, Gil sets a throw pillow on the coffee table in front of them and helps Malcolm rest his feet on it. He hesitates then. 

“It’s about the case,” Malcolm says. “Isn’t it?” He can’t think of anything else that would make him react like this. He’s usually pretty good at keeping Malcolm in the loop, but it doesn’t mean he likes sharing the bad news. Malcolm takes his hand. He’s not sure who he’s soothing.

Gil sighs. “We searched his house today.” His frown twists into a grimace. 

It’s difficult to hide his impatience. “What did you find?” Malcolm says evenly. He’s starting to feel… odd. Detached? He refuses to distract Gil now, however. Whatever this is, he _needs_ to know.

“Trophies.” Gil scrubs at his beard with his free hand. “Malcolm, there are pictures.”

Something not too unlike giddiness wells up in his chest, something akin to hysterical laughter, something painful in its intensity. He doesn’t remember _pictures_. All he remembers is Jack and —

“Malcolm?” Now Gil looks concerned. He’s cradling Malcolm’s face in both his hands, his grip gentle as if he’s handling something fragile.

Maybe he is. Malcolm doesn’t even remember his husband letting go of his hand, and, taking stock of his surroundings, his being, he realizes that he started crying at some point. He frowns, confused. Another tear beads up and slips down his face to run into Gil’s warm hand. “Pictures,” he murmurs.

Clearly, there were pictures of himself. Clearly, Gil checked and confirmed that there were. Malcolm has no idea what could be in them, what Jack would have wanted documented, and he almost asks _why_ Jack would be _so fucking stupid_ as to keep evidence like that. The question dies in his throat, an aborted sob. He screws his eyes shut.

Gil leans in and lays a gentle kiss on each eyelid. “I’m sorry, kid,” he says thickly. “I’m sorry.”

## 30 weeks

The story breaks overnight. The source is anonymous, but it’s difficult to argue that it’s lies. Not with the sheer amount of evidence dumped onto one lucky news outlet. There are pictures, so many pictures. As a token gesture of privacy and empathy, the faces of the victims in the pictures are blurred, although the handful of photos with Jack in them don’t have any blurring on _his_ face. His expression is always smug, nasty. Combined with the sheer number of assaults the source points to, it’s enough to turn much of the public against him instantly.

The claim that his latest victim turned up dead helps, too. 

Reporters swarm the NYPD, harrassing nearly every officer leaving or entering the precinct for more information. Whether someone accidentally let slip that Lieutenant Gil Arroyo was in charge or some reporter managed to find out for themselves, it’s unclear, but soon enough he and Detectives Tarmel and Powell bear the brunt of the questions.

The NYPD releases a statement reminding everyone that the case is still open. They won’t be discussing it at this time. 

It doesn’t stop the persistent reporters who dig up as much information on the team as possible. They show up at the Lieutenant’s house. They find out where his husband lives and park themselves there, too. They follow Detective Powell home and set up outside of the Tarmel house, only leaving when the uniformed officers force them to. 

Updates are all over TV, in the papers. 

Martin watches the news quietly, contemplatively. He leans forward when he sees Major Crimes on the screen, but his face remains neutral throughout, and not even Mr. David has a clue what’s going on in his head this time. Usually, he would get excited, looking for any hint of his son while ignoring the presence of the man who arrested him. There’s no excitement this time. No request for the phone either. He even pays extra attention to the Lieutenant of all people.

Which is _concerning_.

He switches the channel. This station is focusing on the victims directly, calling for anyone who knows any information to contact the NYPD, anything to strengthen the case. The anchor warns about graphic images before the camera cuts and a handful of blurred pictures flash across the screen. 

That gets Martin’s attention. His unsettlingly neutral face flickers with rage, his mouth twisting in a snarl. 

Mr. David cuts his TV time short that day.

\----------------

Gil has even more respect for Gabrielle Le Deux now than he did years back, when she alone was able to coax Malcolm into talking again where so many other therapists failed. She may specialize in children, but she helps his husband as an adult all the same. He finds himself calling her most evenings, passing the phone to a trembling Malcolm. 

The leak has not been kind to them. 

Though both of them know they shouldn’t watch, shouldn’t look, shouldn’t wonder, life doesn’t work that way. Gil, for one, has to. He has to be up to date with the actions of the press so that he can make sure they don’t jeopardize his case or get the public too riled up. They precinct is already being inundated with calls from people who insist they know something about Jack Lewis, and while they’re taking every one of those calls seriously, many of them have already proved to be useless or fake. The process of going through the calls and statements is slow going. 

He also has to look at the photos. They’re evidence. As soon as he comes across one particular set, he knows the man in the pictures is Malcolm. The first few don’t show his face, but Gil can tell just based on the shape of him, and the rage, the horror build. 

He slams the door when he shuts himself in his office for a breather. 

The worst part about losing his cool is knowing that he gave it away. His solemn faced detectives come find him shortly afterwards, quiet and pale, and he lets out a frustrated sigh. “Give me time to warn him,” he orders. He does _not_ want to tell Malcolm over text or phone call. His husband shouldn’t be alone with that kind of knowledge.

\---------------

Malcolm doesn’t _have_ to look, not to do his job. He’s never been on this case. And yet he still _needs_ to. He was under the stupid, _stupid_ assumption that he knew everything there was to know, that the nightmares couldn’t get worse than they already were, that he would be able to go for the rest of his life without telling anyone else what happened. Now he’s even more adrift than he already was. He has no idea what else Jack took from him. 

He needs to see the photos.

Gil would never let him see the actual photos, of course. His husband shares case information with him, yes, but he wouldn’t share that, not when he knows just how raw Malcolm feels at the mere thought that they exist. 

So he turns on the news. He pulls up articles on his phone. He listens to the reporters as he scrolls through blurred pictures, the odd sensation of being detached from his body creeping up again, until he comes across the ones of him. He recognizes the lines of his body, the lack of hair on his chest, the birthmark on his thigh. 

He huddles into himself as much as he can, wrapping his arms around his son, and tries to breathe. It doesn’t work too well. With shaking hands, he manages to hit Gabrielle’s contact. His phone is cool against his wet face. 

“Malcolm?” she says, immediately concerned.

“Hey,” he croaks out. “Are you free right now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with the evidence they find at Jack's house, mainly his 'trophies' from his assaults. The two big ones are photos - which are vaguely, not graphically described, but frequently mentioned and alluded to - and underwear - which is really only mentioned once and, again, not in great detail.
> 
> There's really no portion of this chapter you can read if those are too hard hitting for you, but please feel free to ask for a summary if you would still like to read the rest of the fic going forward. I'd be happy to give you a short one so that you're not confused.


	22. Chapter 22

## 31 Weeks

The next week brings little in the way of news, good or bad, but it’s rough all the same. Jack’s bartender friend is arrested, and while Malcolm is undoubtedly relieved, the bartender is not the one who haunts his dreams. No, Jack is already in custody waiting for his trial. 

The nightmares don’t stop.

But neither does Gil. He stays awake with Malcolm every time he wakes up screaming, pushes his sweaty hair away from his face and gives him a gentle kiss on the temple, holds him until he stops shaking. 

Malcolm knows that Gil knows he saw the pictures. There was no way he was going to hide it, especially not now that they pretty much live together, and so he didn’t bother to defend himself when Gil’s face slipped into heartbreak. Maybe he _should_ have tried, but he still feels like he’s living outside of his body, a spectator of a depressing one man show. He just let Gil pull him close. 

As the days pass, however, he does start to feel something strong. Anger. Fury. _Rage_. Every single night is dotted with nightmares, without a single hint of Gil, of the dreams he looked forward a few weeks prior, and Gil, for as wonderful as he’s been, barely initiates more than a chaste kiss or two. Malcolm hates that Jack has done this to him. They were getting somewhere before. _He_ was getting somewhere. He was comfortable with Gil, and part of him even had hope that he would soon be comfortable enough to have sex with Gil instead of in front of him.

It’s not like he’s never aroused. He still gets hard, especially when he thinks about his husband. He still _wants_ , too. Actually being intimate is different than wanting, unfortunately.

Eventually he breaks. 

“Do you not want me anymore?” Malcolm says one evening, the words twisting somewhere between his brain and his mouth, but he can’t take them back now that they’re out in the open. 

Gil looks over from where he’s toweling his hair, startled. “Of course I do.” He flips the towel onto his shoulder. His hair is still a little damp, and it drips onto his shoulder.

“Then why haven’t you — why haven’t _we_ —” He bites his lip and looks away. 

Walking over slowly, Gil lays a soothing hand on his neck. His thumb strokes the edge of Malcolm’s hairline when he relaxes into it. “Malcolm,” Gil says, quiet and serious, “if I thought we were ready for that again, I would say yes.” He doesn’t stress the we, but it sticks out all the same. 

Still, Malcolm isn’t so easily assuaged. He’s desperate for things to go back to what they were. “What if I _am_ ready?” he says stubbornly.

Gil is silent for a few beats. 

Malcolm knows he’s thinking of how to phrase his next words, and the fact that he feels he has to makes him angry all over again. He clenches his jaw so as not to ruin this. Even pissed, he’s aware that he doesn’t want to snap at Gil of all people. 

His son kicks once, twice, three times, sensing his father’s distress. It does help.

“We can try,” Gil finally settles on. 

That helps more. Malcolm relaxes some, not fully, because now the panic is setting in. Does Gil mean _now?_ He feels some arousal low in his gut with his husband standing next to him, only a towel around his waist, but it doesn’t mean he can do this immediately. 

“In a few days,” Gil insists, because of course he can tell where Malcolm’s mind is spiraling, “and we’ll stop if we need to.” If _you_ need to.

Malcolm’s conflicted. And yet… “Could you at least kiss me like you used to?” His voice is small, and he winces at it. 

“Of course, kid.” Removing his hand from Malcolm’s neck, Gil uses it to tilt his head up, and then he’s kissing him. It’s not like the pecks they’ve exchanged lately. He swipes his tongue across the seam of his husband’s mouth until Malcolm gasps, giving him the room he needs to deepen it. 

It feels like a promise.

\-----------

The problem is that there never seems to be a good time. There’s no reprieve from the nightmares, which means that neither of them are in the mood in the mornings, and the nights are shot, too, because Gil is always wiped after work. He, Dani, and JT are still going through all of the photos trying to identify victims and add to the case against Jack. More often than not, Gil just wants to hold him as soon as he walks through the door.

Malcolm tells himself it’s fine. It’s fine that they’re delaying this. It’s fine that he has more time to think — to obsess and worry and panic — about being intimate with Gil again. 

He spends his days reading to his son in an effort to distract himself. According to the sites he has bookmarked, his son should be able to hear him by now. He’ll have most of his senses, actually, even if he’s only the size of a bunch of asparagus. So, avoiding his father’s storytime favorites, Malcolm sets aside time every morning and afternoon to read aloud in bed, a few pillows propped up behind him. They’re classics, mostly. It’s not as if his son understands the words yet. The sound of Malcolm’s voice does seem to calm the kicking, though, which he’s grateful for. 

When a day becomes three becomes five, however, he gets itchy. He sheds his clothes and gets into the shower instead of climbing into bed to read, and, as the water washes over him, he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He thinks about all of the dreams he’s had of Gil. He thinks of the feeling of Gil’s chest against his back, of the more intense kisses they’ve shared. 

Malcolm waits until he’s half hard to touch himself. Bracing a hand against the wall, he snakes the other down around his bump and strokes himself lightly, letting it stiffen in his grip instead of forcing it. He keeps up the gentle pace. He reminds himself over and over again that he’s in his loft, that he’s safe.

That Jack is in custody.

Eventually, the spray takes his spend down the drain as he leans against the wall with a whisper of Gil’s name on his lips. 

\-------------------

## 32 weeks

A banging on the downstairs door startles Malcolm out of _Middlemarch_. He eases off the bed, wincing a little, and goes to the window to see who it is. “Tally?” he says, bewildered. He hasn’t talked to her since that disastrous pool date with Eve. 

JT’s wife looks up and waves at him. “Malcolm! Can you let me in?”

“The bottom door is open,” he calls down before shuffling to the entrance to the actual loft. 

As soon as the door’s open, her gaze immediately goes to his stomach. Her expression, already plenty friendly, softens a touch more, and she makes an aborted motion with her hand.

It might read like a move to touch _his_ bump, if he weren’t a profiler. His eyes widen, his mouth forming an _oh_. “Are you pregnant?”

Her eyes shoot up to his, but then she’s laughing. “You’re amazing,” she gushes. “I’m just starting my second trimester. JT and I were waiting to tell anyone until this week. How far along are you?”

“Thirty-two weeks.” He checked his websites that morning to find that his son is the size of a squash. He makes a mental note to share those with her. He bites his lip. Is _this_ what it’s like to have pregnant friends? They won’t be pregnant together for long, but she came to him, and that feels like it means something. “Can I get you something to drink, Tally? Or eat?”

She blushes and shakes her head. “No! You sit down, you look like you’re ready to pop.” Tally practically herds him over to the couch. “Could I get _you_ something?”

He can’t help the smile that twitches at his lips. He doubts it’s why she decided to visit, but he’s feeling lighter than he has in weeks. “There are waters in the fridge, if you could bring me one. Help yourself, too.” Waiting for her to come back, he swings his legs up to rest on the coffee table with a sigh. Malcolm rests a hand on his bump as a Braxton Hicks hits. He’s had them the last few days, the occasional tightness in his stomach, but he lets it pass without any worry, knowing from his research that the lack of pain means it’s not a real contraction. 

“Are you okay?” Tally stands next to the couch, clearly worried. 

“It’s just Braxton Hicks,” he explains and waves it off. When she holds out a water, he takes it gladly, cracking it open and drinking. His research _also_ told him that dehydration causes more of them. He’s nothing if not thorough.

Tally fiddles with her own bottle.

Malcolm caps his. “What did you want to know?” Because that’s what this is about, really. She’s nervous, and something tells him he’s the only pregnant person she knows. “I’ll answer whatever I can.”

“JT was right,” she says, shaking her head fondly. “It _is_ uncanny sometimes.” She clears her throat. “My doctor says there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not high risk. It’s just… JT and I have been trying for a while.”

“And you’re worried.” He takes another sip.

She nods. “We want this a lot.” This time, she allows herself to touch her stomach, flat as it still is. “I was hoping you’d be up to sharing.”

“Well, consider me an open book.” He spreads his arms out. Malcolm’s comfortable enough now that means it, for the most part, but he’s sure she assumes Gil is the father, and therefore it’s unlikely she’ll ask anything he won’t answer.

“There’s so much I want to ask,” she admits. Her eyes flick down to his bump again.

Trying not to show his hesitation, Malcolm pulls up his shirt. He hasn’t let anyone other than Gil, his doctor, his mother or his sister touch. The thought of Tally doing so isn’t _bad_ , however. “Go ahead.”

She reaches out and lays a hand on the firm skin, already covered in stretchmarks, her lips parted but nothing coming out. She jerks her hand back when his son kicks a hello.

“He likes to do that,” Malcolm says wryly. “He does it every time Gil touches my stomach.” He gestures for her to put her hand back. “He won’t bite.”

She resumes touching him, smiling wistfully as his son kicks her again. “My husband was jealous of him, you know. Just a little. I’m just glad he’s getting a second chance. JT worked under him for two years before Jackie passed.”

It’s more like Gil is _his_ second chance, but he keeps that to himself. “I miss her, too.” And he does. “JT doesn’t have to be jealous anymore, though.”

Her smile widens, turns into something bright and cheerful and infectious. “No, he doesn’t.”

They spend close to two hours talking. Malcolm answers every question she asks from the more serious to the more silly, and he gives her his number in case she thinks of any others. When the hour ticks down to about a half an hour before he knows JT and Gil will be getting off duty, she gets up to leave.

And then Tally stops at the door. “I have one more question, actually.” She brushes her hair behind her ear. “Are you planning a baby shower?”

He… never thought of it, not really. Not with how rough the earlier months were for him mentally. “No?”

“How would you feel about a joint shower?” 

Malcolm’s gut reaction is to say no. He doesn’t have a real reason to have one at this point. He’s already bought plenty of things for his son, and in fact, there’s a small area in the living room with the crib already set up. He doesn’t need anyone to buy anything for him. Not to mention that he doesn’t really have any _friends_.

Unless…

He takes note of the nervous light in her eyes, the way she’s barely holding back from fidgeting. “Sure. You have my number.”

Tally smiles again before she leaves.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lighter, double stuffed chapter for you guys! This one clocks in at 300 words shy of being twice my typical chapter. Enjoy!

## 33 Weeks

When Gil wakes him up that morning with a kiss, Malcolm accepts it but makes no move to get out of bed. He’s comfortable. It’s becoming a less familiar feeling as his pregnancy progresses, and so he’s not moving until he absolutely has to. Laying his head back down on the pillow, he lets his eyes rest.

Sunshine chirps in her cage, and there’s a soft clinking. Gil must be refilling her food. 

Then, just as Malcolm actually starts to slip back into sleep, the smell of bacon wafts over from the kitchen, his ears picking up on the crackling of the fat in the pan and the soft humming of a not unfamiliar tune in his husband’s low tones. It’s tempting. _God_ , is it tempting. Still, he doesn’t get out of bed. Although the idea pains him, he’d rather eat his greasy breakfast in bed than get up right now.

His son doesn’t agree. He’s evidently awake, too, and he gets to kicking Malcolm in an effort to let him know he’s hungry. Not even the presence of a warm hand above his feet persuades him to calm down.

Malcolm groans as he gets up. He goes to the bathroom first, of course, because he almost always needs to pee nowadays, but then he goes straight for the kitchen where his husband is cooking in his boxers. The urge to lean against Gil’s bare back is strong. Unfortunately, it’s not really feasible with the size of his bump. He sits at the bar instead.

Gil sits next to him, two plates of eggs and bacon in hand, and pulls him into a kiss. “Try to cheer up, kid. It’s baby shower day, remember?”

Malcolm goes for the bacon rather than reply. He forgot, honestly. After a day of texting with Tally, he quickly realized he was in way over his head and connected her with his mother, who took over with gusto. (He made it clear with her that she couldn’t dismiss _all_ of Tally’s suggestions. Although that might not have been a problem, if her knowledge of sip and sees was any indication.) He still texts Tally most days. Sometimes it’s to answer her questions or soothe any worries. Sometimes she just texts him about silly things JT did or cute dogs she saw on the way to work. 

He tentatively considers her a good friend now. 

Which brings the topic back to the baby shower. Tally clearly wasn’t expecting much from him in way of decorations or food. She wanted companionship, someone who was going through this with her. But what good is his family’s money if it’s not being used? Between him and his mother, they convinced her to let them hold the party at the Whitly house. It’s big enough for all of their guests, _and_ there are no rental fees. That naturally led to his mother suggesting her kitchen staff for the catering. And of course, she knew _plenty_ of companies that could make custom decorations. They’d work fast if she called them right away, since Malcolm’s due date is only weeks out.

Hopefully, his mother listened and let Tally make some decisions.

“It’s going to be fun,” Gil says, setting his fork down on his empty plate. “And if it’s too much, no one will bat an eye if you sit out and rest.”

“Only if you distract my mother,” Malcolm jokes. He finishes his breakfast and lets Gil usher him back to the bed to get dressed. There are no suits for today. Gil pulls out a soft maternity shirt, the kind Malcolm often wears to lounge around the house in, and maternity slacks for him. “Thanks, Gil.”

His husband kisses him. “Of course, kid.”

\--------------

They’ve only just arrived, and Malcolm’s already regretting stepping away from the planning. 

His mother answers the door and immediately pulls him into a hug followed by Gil. She takes them through the foyer where staff are ready to hand out sleek medium-sized gift bags adorned with ribbon over to the main party room, which is filled with tables of food and drinks on one side, two tables labeled individually with Malcolm and Tally’s names in delicate cursive on the other. The whole room is decorated in white and gold. It’s elegant and organized and screams Jessica Whitly.

When he looks closer, he’s relieved to find a few touches of Tally, too. Some of the serving dishes are filled with doritos and cheese puffs. All of it is mixed in among the foods he expected to see, like roasted grape and goat cheese crostinis and charcuterie selections, but none of that is enough to completely disguise the platters of pizza rolls in the back.

His lips twitch.

“Take a seat, dear,” his mother insists. “I have to triple check that everything’s ready for guests.”

Gil plops on the couch next to him. “Do you have any idea what’s in these?” He holds up the two gift bags.

“Not at all.” Gift bags did _not_ enter the conversation before he left. Snagging one from his husband, he unties the ribbon.

Inside, there are several sheets of thick, good quality cardstock in varying sizes. The smallest two are titled _Baby Arroyo_ and _Baby Tarmel_ respectively with spaces underneath to guess birth dates, weights, names, etc. On the _Baby Arroyo_ card, the sex line is filled out already. 

Malcolm swallows and looks at his husband as he realizes they haven’t once talked about names despite him already being in his eighth month. 

Gil puts an arm around him and hugs him closer. “We’ll figure it out, city boy.”

The second smallest sheet is a bingo card. The squares are filled with words like blanket, bottles, stroller, and diapers — clearly relating to opening gifts. It explains the empty tables, too, which Malcolm supposes will fill up as guests arrive. 

The biggest and last set of sheets are, like the smallest, virtually identical aside from the titles. They’re trivia cards. Malcolm is momentarily disappointed to see the Tarmels’ card with the heading _Tally & JT_ instead of whatever the detective’s full name is, but he’s distracted by his own card soon enough.

_Malcolm & Gil_ it reads, all loops and curves and smooth lines. There’s something oddly official about it, and it takes his breath away as he traces it with his eyes. He’s vaguely aware of his husband kissing his temple. 

And then he reads the questions. “Gil?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“How are we going to answer these?” Malcolm whispers. They’re the only two who really know the full development of their relationship, and as far as he’s concerned, no one besides Gil and his family have any inkling that his son isn’t Gil’s. 

_When was their first date?_

_When did they get married?_

_How did Malcolm tell Gil about the baby?_

Malcolm imagines his mother had someone else put together the questions, someone else format and print the cards. Otherwise, she would have caught this first, realized just how big of a mess this could become if they’re not careful, and scrapped the whole idea. Gil already warned him that JT and Dani _knew_. It would take so little for either of them to put two and two together and get his son. He turns his head to bury it in Gil’s sweater. Not even the arms that wrap around him help.

“It’ll be okay,” his husband says soothingly, hugging him tight. “We don’t have to lie. I haven’t taken you out on a real date yet anyway, kid.” The joke falls flat.

They stay there, huddled like that on the couch, until his mother’s cheerful cry of _Tally_ reaches them through the halls.

\-------------------

Gil claps JT on the back as their spouses talk. He did notice his detective was a little more… high strung for the last month, but he was so focused on work and Malcolm to even consider it might be because Tally was pregnant. As a boss, he’s happy for JT. As a friend, he’s privately relieved. 

They’ve known each other long enough that JT and Tally were guests in his and Jackie’s house a few times before her passing, and once, Tally let slip that they were trying for a baby. Gil and Jackie knew that struggle all too well. Years of waiting, of frustration, of false positives, and they never had anything to show for it. Malcolm and Ainsley were the only kids to step foot in their house. 

He never wanted any of that for JT and Tally. 

“This is not really my scene,” JT says, looking around the room with a raised brow, “but Tally’s excited.”

Gil smiles when he looks over at them to find Malcolm looking happier than when he left him. “She’s a good friend for him.” 

“All she’s been talking about lately is Malcolm this and Malcolm that. Our kids are going to have playdates scheduled before they’re even born.” JT shakes his head.

Although the words are mildly disgruntled, Gil can tell his detective is pleased. “Playdates? Wait until they’re old enough for sleepovers.”

Whatever JT planned on saying is Jessica tapping her wine glass. “Hello! Some of you are here for my darling son, Malcolm, and his husband, Gil, and some of you are here for the lovely Tally and JT. Now, we have a few activities planned, but for the most part, it’s up to all of you to mingle.” She takes a sip of her wine. “We’ll start with the activities later. Starting now, anyone who says the word ‘baby’ loses!”

She doesn’t clarify what.

\-------------

Tally drags Malcolm around the room. She introduces him to her parents and JT’s, to JT’s siblings and her aunts and uncles. Their friends, too, ones they made both in the military and out. She keeps their arms linked the entire time and gushes about the work he does with her husband. It’s… sweet. 

Malcolm’s sure he’s going to be permanently red by the end of it. Still, he makes a point to introduce her to his sister, the only person at the shower she hasn’t met before, and then he pulls out his old money charm and manages to get some decent conversation in before he has to sit down, his son heavy in his stomach. He waves Tally off when she goes to join him. “It’s your party, too,” he insists. “Go spend time with everyone.”

Not a minute after she leaves, Dani sits next to him, a plate filled with snacks in her hand. “You look bored. Or tired.”

“How about both?” he jokes. He eyes up her plate. If it were Gil’s, he wouldn’t hesitate to steal something off it. Dani, on the other hand, might slap him.

By the amused look in her eye, he guesses he wasn’t subtle.

“Okay, Bright, tell me what you want, and I’ll get you a plate.” She pops a pizza roll in her mouth. 

He tells her.

Clearly, she doesn’t trust him with her plate, because she takes it with her when she goes to get him cheese puffs and the little bacon finger sandwiches his mother had made just for him.

Malcolm closes his eyes as he eats one of the sandwiches. He gives her a tired smile as he reaches for another. “I’m surprised Gil hasn’t come over yet. Or my mother.”

Dani snorts. “Your mother is telling JT’s parents all about your family tree, and your husband is currently being lectured on the importance of having a birth plan.”

Sure enough, when he looks for him, Malcolm finds Gil listening to Edrisa, a perplexed look on his face. “We haven’t thought that far ahead,” he admits.

“You’ve both had a lot on your minds,” she says quietly. It’s all she says about that, quickly switching tracks to trying weasel the trivia answers out of him.

He relaxes finally, not even realizing he was tense beside her. 

\------------

Gil keeps half his attention on Malcolm during the trivia portion. Jessica reminded all of them to fill out their cards a half an hour before, and now the two of them are watching people alternate between cheering and frowning as JT and Tally go through their answers.

He and Malcolm already went. It wasn’t as stressful as he feared, but he can’t shake the worry that his husband will still crash later, just from the idea of how bad it could have been. Really, the questions were the easiest part. Everyone seemed content to take them at their word, and so the vague answers Gil provided (with the occasional chime in from Malcolm) passed without any suspicion. 

After all, he wouldn’t count any of the meals they’ve shared as dates. He has a feeling that Jessica will set something up for them now that he’s publicly announced they haven’t had a single one. Gil’s okay with that. Eventually, maybe after their son is born, he’ll plan something of his own, just for the two of them. 

Or maybe the three of them. He knows that Malcolm’s son will likely be much too pale to keep up the ruse, that it’s entirely possible that he’ll grow up to look just like his other father, that any kids they may have after will make the differences even more pronounced. Though Gil’s not sure if he can even _have_ kids, not with the struggles he and Jackie went through. It doesn’t matter.

Malcolm’s son is _their_ son. Gil has loved him for months despite his other father, despite the way he came to be. He gave both of them his name willingly. They’re his _family_ now. Besides, his relationship with Malcolm started with their son, and so Gil knows he wouldn’t hesitate to plan their dates as a group of three. 

\------------------

By the end of the shower, Dani manages to be both the only one remaining to not have said ‘baby’ and the overall winner of the trivia contest, having the advantage of knowing all three of them very well. Most of the gifts were for Tally, since Malcolm specified that he already had most of what he needed, but that didn’t stop anyone from getting him something. His haul consisted of onesies, diapers, and an absurd amount of stuffed animals, many of them courtesy of Ainsley. Jessica has the staff pack all of it up to send over to the loft tomorrow.

Gil and Malcolm bow out first. As the most pregnant person in the room, everyone’s willing to give Malcolm a pass, assuming he’s tired.

He’s not. He relaxes into his seat, into the smell of Gil that permeates the vehicle, the sound of his husband singing along with the radio. 

Malcolm has come to a decision.

They head into the loft slowly, Malcolm using the stair railing, because his son is big enough to make stairs a chore at this point. He almost regrets not trying to find a better place before he got to this point. Gil takes his coat and pointedly leads him to the couch before going to hang up both of theirs. They already ate plenty at his mother’s house, so there’s no reason to cook, and he comes right back and sits with Malcolm.

“Gil?” Malcolm looks over at him, making sure to make eye contact.

His husband cups his cheek and smiles. “Yeah, kid?”

“Let me ride you tonight.” His request is completely serious. They’ve been waiting for the right time to ease back into intimacy. He can’t think of a better time than now. He’s already talked to his doctor about having sex so late in his pregnancy, and she reassured him that it was okay. There were certain things he had to watch out for, sure, but otherwise he could do this. 

He’s thought about it a great deal. He even decided that he needed to be on top, at least this time, just to lessen the chance of him getting any flashbacks. Malcolm _wants_ to do this. 

Gil looks at him, really looks at him. “Are you sure? You can say no at any time.”

“I know,” Malcolm says. He leans into his husband’s hand. “That’s why I’m sure. Please, Gil.”

“Okay.” With one last caress, Gil pulls away, standing up and holding out his hands to help Malcolm up, too. He kisses him as soon as he’s on his feet. It’s slow, loving, a silent promise to take care of him. Then he’s guiding him over to the bed, where he piles a few pillows up. His clothes come off in a handful of perfunctory movements. He’s already hard, his dick bobbing as he shucks his boxers. Gil pulls the lube out before propping himself up on the pillows. “Strip, and c’mere, city boy.”

Swallowing, Malcolm does as he asks. The soft sweater and pants he wore to the shower pool on the floor. He eases onto the bed on his knees, shuffling up until Gil can reach him and haul him into his lap, his legs settling on either side of him. His husband’s cock brushes against his cheeks. Malcolm bites his lip, stifling a whimper. 

Gil stills.

“No! It was a good sound,” Malcolm insists. And it was. His own dick twitches against his bump. 

Reassured, Gil pops open the lube and hesitates. “Do you think you can reach?”

Malcolm holds out his hand in lieu of an answer. The lube is cold on his fingers. He makes a show of warming it up, humming as he does so. It’s been so long since he’s done this in front of someone else, but he wants this to be good for his husband, too. He angles his arm behind him and sighs at the first slick touch against his hole. 

Gil’s hands ball up on the bed, desperate to touch. 

It’s sweet that he’s not, but Malcolm wants him to now, and so he uses his free hand to take one of Gil’s and bring it up to his hip. As soon as his husband’s fist unfurls, latches onto him, Malcolm lets his finger slide into his hole. He moans softly and then again, louder when the cock against his ass throbs. 

“God, kid…” Gil strokes his hip with a thumb. 

Malcolm’s thighs clench around Gil with each shallow thrust of his finger. It’s not much, but it’s more than he’s had in a few weeks. “Gil,” he breathes out. He’s tearing up. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“I know, I know, baby.” 

“I love you,” Malcolm whimpers, slipping a second finger in. Maybe it’s too soon, but he doubts he could wait until he’s fully stretched. He breathes through the burn.

Gil groans. “I love you, too. Always will.”

Despite Malcolm’s intentions, the process is a fairly slow one. He works in a third finger and desperately scissors them with his eyes trained on his husband’s. He can tell he’s not the only one having a hard time waiting.

“Are you sure?” Gil asks again, even as his cock twitches at the brush of Malcolm’s hand past it. 

Malcolm holds his hand out again for more lube. “I am. Please.”

Gil uncaps the bottle. His body jolts when Malcolm wraps a slick hand around him, and he hisses as he exhales. Then, the head of his dick pops in. His eyes slam shut. “Malcolm,” he says, strained.

Legs shaking, Malcolm lowers himself until he’s fully seated. His lips are parted, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t wait to compose himself, he can’t. He rocks up, just a little, just enough to feel his husband’s cock slide against his cheeks before he rocks right back down, whimpering at the fullness. He does it again. And again.

And then again, rocking up higher this time. It’s still not far, because he can’t ride Gil the way he could while _not_ eight months pregnant, and yet it’s enough. “Gil,” he murmurs. “ _Gil_.” He’s leaking against the curve of his stomach. 

As if the sound of his name brought him back to his senses, Gil takes a deep breath and puts his hands to use, helping lift Malcolm and ease him back down. “You’re gorgeous,” he gasps. His hips twitch up. “Look at you, riding me.” He groans when Malcolm lowers. “Swollen with our child.”

Malcolm’s legs can’t support him then, and he drops the rest of the way with a cry, drawing a grunt out of his husband. 

“ _Our_ son,” Gil says firmly. He puts more of his strength into helping Malcolm up again. “You have no idea what you do to me, baby.”

With his help, Malcolm picks up the pace again. “You have no idea what you do to _me_ ,” he pants. He’s already on edge, his cock leaking profusely against his stomach, his whole body alight on the sensation of Gil inside of him. 

“Shift with me, kid?” Although Gil doesn’t say what exactly he’s planning, Malcolm trusts him.

He nods.

Gil shifts him forward a touch and angles himself so that he can thrust up into him. He plants his feet on the bed for leverage. He tentatively snaps his hips.

It knocks a moan out of Malcolm. “ _Please_ , Gil.”

Gil fucks into him. The pace isn’t rapid, but it’s steady, unrelenting. He lets out a stream of _beautiful, gorgeous, Malcolm_ as he moves. 

In this position, Malcolm’s cock rubs against Gil, and the friction on both sides is what does him in. He cries out, clenching, and paints them both white. 

His husband curses. He thrusts twice before he’s easing Malcolm back down into his lap, down to the root as he fills him up. 

They sit there like that for a while and catch their breath.

Finally, Malcolm laughs, breaking the silence. It’s a giddy sound, something that’s welling up in his chest. He can’t stop it.

Gil’s brow creases in concern. “Are you okay, Malcolm?”

“Better.” He wipes at his eyes where tears build. “I feel so good, Gil.” He does. Maybe it was the position, maybe it was just _Gil_ , but Jack never crossed his mind once. 

Putting his hands on Malcolm’s hips, Gil helps him up and out of his lap. He shifts so that he can give him a languid kiss, brushing the remaining tears off his cheeks. “Let’s get you cleaned up, city boy.” 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm is a little blunt about what happened to him (in a not at all graphic way) towards the end of his chapter, just so you know!
> 
> Also, references to undescribed gore

## 34 Weeks

Gil wakes up slowly, a pleased sound in his throat. He angles his hips into the slow rocking of his husband’s and sucks a small mark into the juncture of Malcolm’s neck. He grins into skin as he feels him shiver. Not all of his mornings are like this, but in the week since the baby shower, they’ve been intimate in some way almost every day. Sometimes it’s handjobs in the shower, sometimes it’s Malcolm straddling him and rubbing against him until they’re both spent. 

Sometimes it’s making love in the morning.

Gently pulling Malcolm closer, one hand thrown across his swell, Gil grinds into him and groans. There’s only one thin layer between his cock and Malcolm’s ass. Logically, he knows that his husband doesn’t sleep nude for _him_ , at least not right now. The pregnancy is making him run hot, and he tends to wake up sweaty if he wears anything to bed. Malcolm hasn’t bothered with pajamas in the past week.

Gil reaches down to push the band of his boxers down underneath his balls. The first brush of his bare dick against Malcolm’s ass rips a curse out of him.

Malcolm brings Gil’s hand up to his mouth and kisses his palm, nips at his fingers. “Good morning,” he says sleepily, rocking back. 

“Morning, kid.” He lays a kiss over the blooming hickey he sucked on Malcolm’s neck. “Do you want it like this or do you want more?”

Malcolm hums. “More. Keep talking to me?”

Gil rolls away to grab the lube, unfazed by the request. It’s not unusual, not for them, not in this position. The easiest position for his husband _mentally_ is being in Gil’s lap, but physically, it’s difficult now that their son has shifted in preparation for his debut. Being on his back or not being able to see Gil’s face makes Malcolm tense and shake. If Gil talks, however, if he keeps up a steady stream of praise and love, the sound of his voice is enough to ease him. 

Gil will talk himself hoarse if it means Malcolm is comfortable enough to enjoy himself.

He makes quick work of prepping him, Malcolm’s hole still a little loose from the night before when they propped him up on his front with plenty of pillows so that Gil could fuck him silly. Then all it takes is a slick hand and a nudge until his cock is sliding into Malcolm’s clenching heat. “So good for me, city boy,” he murmurs. “God, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Malcolm whines as he shifts, trying to take more in. “Gil, please.”

“I’ve got you.” He keeps it steady. These lazy morning moments never last terribly long, both of them aching for the other, knowing they’ll spend the bulk of the day apart. “I’ve always got you.” He angles his hips to where he knows his husband’s prostate is.

Malcolm breathes out a moan. “Right there.”

Gil slowly drives him up until he can’t take it anymore. When Malcolm comes around him, dirtying their sheets, his ass clenching around Gil, Gil thrusts in as deep as he can and stays there, slipping into his own orgasm, content to have his cock milked by Malcolm’s still twitching muscles. 

They stumble into the bathroom together.

\------------

When Gil sits at his desk, fresh coffee in hand, he’s more content to be there at the precinct than he has been in _weeks_. There are no more photos to look through, to analyze. All that he and his team can do has been done, and they were lucky enough that a handful of the victims were willing to testify and give even more weight to the already damning evidence they have on Jack. The best part, however, was that the media attention pushed the timeline up.

Instead of the trial being dragged out, public outcry meant that Jack’s court date was scheduled for a mere two weeks out. He’s at a detention center in the meantime. His lawyer was reluctant to leave him there, but it was better than throwing him to the wolves. Thanks to the leak, too many angry people knew his face. It’s still not safe even weeks post his arrest.

But Gil knows the trial won’t solve all of their problems. Jack likely won’t get too much prison time, and who knows if he’ll stay in the city once he gets out. Malcolm, Gil is sure, isn’t as keen to leave as he was as a teenager. Not to mention that locking the fucker away won’t instantly heal all pre-existing wounds. 

At the very least, Gil is grateful not to have to ask his husband to testify. Dani brought it up at one point, quietly, somberly, but he didn’t want to force Malcolm to relive it all or, worse, see Jack again. It’s bad enough the anticipation of a trial is putting stress on him. His OB cautioned them at his last appointment that he’ll need to be on bedrest if nothing changes.

Gil sips his coffee. He already submitted paperwork for paternity leave. Starting next week, he’ll have a full month and a half off — two weeks before the scheduled birth and four as they adjust to being parents. Being at the NYPD for as long as he was and with the collars he’s racked up has its benefits. Of course, he did agree to be on call for any large cases.

Six weeks with Malcolm and their son… Gil puts his feet up on the edge of his desk and just thinks about it. He doesn’t care about the interrupted sleep, the stress, the mess that comes with newborns. Hell, he’s looking forward to it. He idly twists his ring.

His feet drop to the floor when JT and Dani come through the door with solemn faces. 

Suddenly, his coffee is too bitter. “What happened?” 

\-------------------

The nursery still doesn’t feel right. Malcolm squints at it, one hand on his chin, the other resting on his bump. He’s rearranged it _four_ times. They designated a small section of the loft as the nursery for now, just until they’re adjusted enough to think about getting a bigger place. Malcolm was okay moving in with Gil, but Gil himself put an end to that. His house held so many good memories for both of them, sure, and yet if they were going to move in together, he wanted them to have their own space. Gil’s house was still just as much Jackie’s space as it was his. Malcolm deserved his own home, Gil insisted.

So they put it on the market. Everything Gil wanted to keep was either moved to the loft or packed up and put in storage, safe and ready for when they found a house together. 

With a frown, Malcolm shifts the crib a little forward. It’s better somehow.

The door opens quietly.

He turns to see his husband toeing his shoes off, his jaw set. It’s much too early for him to be home. “Gil?”

“Something happened,” Gil says. He looks pained saying the words. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

Malcolm listens and sits on the couch,if only because he has a feeling Gil won’t say another word until he does. It _has_ to be something about Jack. Maybe the trial was delayed. Or moved up. Maybe one of the victims decided not to testify. Maybe… maybe Jack _knows_. He forces himself to breathe, his OB’s warning flitting through his mind. “Tell me.”

Silently, Gil sits on the couch next to him. 

“Tell me,” Malcolm says again, voice cracking. Deep breathing isn’t going to help him if he has to wait like this. “Gil —”

“Jack’s dead, kid.” It’s all he says. No explanation, no emotion, no more than those three words.

Malcolm’s not sure how to feel. Happy? Angry that Jack never had to serve real prison time? Grateful? His hands make fists at his sides. “How?”

Gil watches him carefully. “It’s not pretty.” When Malcolm stares back, determined, he sighs. “He was, and I quote, ‘disemboweled by a fellow offender’ when the guards weren’t looking.”

“ _Why?_ ” Malcolm stands, ignoring Gil’s attempts at getting him to sit back down. It doesn’t make any sense. They wouldn’t have put Jack somewhere he would be in danger while he awaited trial. Especially not with his case as high profile as it was. “Did you talk to anyone there? Did Jack goad him into doing it?”

Finally, his husband gets up and gently grasps his arms to still him. “Malcolm, they found the word ‘rapist’ written on the floor next to him in blood. He was also… mutilated,” he says, wincing. 

There’s something wrong about all of this. It’s bothering Malcolm much more than the nursery ever could. Something is _not_ adding up. He thinks about everything Gil said, every single word, going over it slowly, because part of him is stuck on figuring out how to _feel_. 

When it hits him, his eyes slid shut and he pales. He leans forward into Gil and lets his husband encase him in his arms. “The guards should have been looking,” he says woodenly. “Why weren’t they looking?”

Gil hugs him tighter. “I don’t know, kid.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Malcolm swallows and pulls away enough to look him in the eye. “They _should_ have been looking. Jack _never_ should have been in with any violent offenders. What was his killer in for?”

“Robbery,” Gil says, frown becoming more and more grim as he realizes what Malcolm is getting at.

This time, Malcolm drops down to the couch without being asked. He can’t curl up the way he wants, not with his son in the way, but he can lean back, neck curving along the top of the couch. “It was my father. It has to be.” He laughs dryly. “He has the money, the access. All he would have to do is call his lawyer and set it up. Who else would even _bother?_ ” His father must have seen the pictures on the news. He must have recognized Malcolm from his general build, from his birthmark. 

“Are you sure, kid?” 

“It was him, Gil,” he says, his voice tinged with the exhaustion he suddenly feels. But as much as his body cries out for rest, Malcolm knows he can’t. His mind will be working overtime until he can confirm his suspicions. “If I could see him —”

“ _No_.” It’s immediate, insistent. Gil’s frown twists into a grimace. “You’re not going to see him. Malcolm, you’re eight months pregnant!”

Of course Malcolm doesn’t want to see his father. He’s tried to close the door on that relationship so many times since finding out about his son, and they’ve even talked about this. Gil knows he doesn’t intend on his father ever seeing his grandson. _This_ is different. “Thirty-four weeks, actually,” Malcolm says, threaded with panic. “I _need_ to see him. If I do, I’ll know for sure if he did this. I’ll be in and out, I promise.”

Gil grits his teeth. His hands find his hips, every inch of him tense.

But he’s not putting his foot down, not really. Malcolm meets his eyes and knows he’ll give in. 

“You’re not going alone,” his husband says finally, the words coming out reluctantly. “I’m coming with you, and that is _not_ negotiable.” There’s something in his face that reeks of doubt. He doesn’t think Malcolm will agree.

Malcolm nods. “Then let’s go.” Taking Gil to see his father of all people is a horrible idea, honestly, and yet the idea is comforting. For the first time in months, he won’t be going in without backup to be stared at and analyzed. Martin will get him and his baby with Gil or not at all.

Gil’s brow shoots up. “Now?” His voice rises with the word, incredulous. 

“The sooner we go, the sooner it’s over. _Please_ , Gil.” He doesn’t move, however, and leaves the decision up to his husband. If they put it off, he might be put on bedrest before they can actually visit, and he refuses to go once their son is born. 

With a frustrated sigh, Gil puts his shoes back on.

\-------------

Claremont is just as unwelcoming as it was the last time Malcolm went, but this time, Gil is at his side. Gil still wears the turtleneck and jacket he went to the precinct that morning in. Malcolm, on the other hand, went to the hassle of pulling out the last maternity suit he has that fits, knowing he needs to look his best if he’s going to risk seeing his father again. His clothing is immaculate and tailored. His ring is a comforting weight against his chest, hanging from a chain under his shirt. He keeps his head high as Gil guides him down the hall to his father’s room.

Mr. David stops them before the final door. “Are you sure?” He looks at both of them, undoubtedly aware of just who Gil is to Martin.

“Thank you, Mr. David,” Malcolm says firmly, “but we’ll be fine. You can wait out here.”

With a reluctant nod, his father’s main guard unlocks the door and lets them in.

“Malcolm, what a surprise!” Martin grins when he sees him. It sharpens as he catches sight of Gil. “Lieutenant.”

Malcolm stares at him flatly. “Dr. Whitly.”

Gil doesn’t bother to acknowledge the address. He grabs Mr. David’s chair and moves it closer for Malcolm.

In return, Martin gladly ignores him, too. “You must be, what, thirty-four weeks now? Time’s ticking away, my boy.”

“My son is not why we’re here, Dr. Whitly.” Malcolm sits as elegantly as he can with how gravid he is. He takes strength from the hand Gil puts on his shoulder. “We’re here about Jack Lewis.”

Martin tilts his head and huffs a laugh. “Jack Lewis? The man who’s been on the news lately? What would I know about him?” 

“I know you had him killed,” Malcolm continues, as steady and calm as possible. He watches his father carefully.

“He was killed? Well, that’s certainly news to _me_.”

Malcolm presses on. He needs to. He can’t stop and react, not until his father gives something more concrete away. “He was disemboweled this morning.”

“My boy,” Martin says, no doubt pretending to be shocked and indignant, “you think _I_ killed him? You can ask Mr. David. I’ve been here all day. No disemboweling, I promise.” He puts a hand on his chest, playing at sincerity.

“No, you didn’t dirty your hands,” Gil finally chimes in. He’s barely restraining the disgust he feels.

Malcolm wishes he could reach up and hold onto his husband’s hand, but they discussed how they would play this, and riling up his father by showing any more affection is not in the plans. 

“Trying to arrest me again?” Martin smiles a nasty smile. “Is your career hurting that much? Maybe you should stop riding on my son’s coattails. Did you even stop to think of _why_ I would supposedly kill this man or were you just desperate?” 

“You arranged for him to die, because he raped me,” Malcolm bites out, staring straight at his father, baiting him and hurting himself to do it, because he _needs_ to know.

And there it is. Rage flickers across Martin’s face. His wrists strain against the cuffs.

Malcolm smiles tightly. He feels sick. “Okay, Gil. I got what I need.”

“Good,” his husband says and helps him up. 

They leave, ignoring Martin calling after them. 

\-----------------

Gil holds him for a long time when they get home. He soothes him as he shakes, strokes his hair and hums a soft tune as they make a quick checkup appointment with his OB.

\------------------

Unsurprisingly, his doctor puts him on bed rest.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw, I know the timeline doesn't necessarily match up with actual pregnancy. Malcolm's a cis man carrying a kid, so I feel like I can be a little loose with it

## 35 weeks

Bed rest, thankfully, isn’t what it sounds like. In fact, his doctor _doesn’t_ want him laying in bed for too long at a time with the exception of sleeping. Bed rest for him means he has to take it easy. Only light yoga or walks for exercise, no taking the steps too often, no stressful situations if he can help it. 

The only reason he manages it is because of Gil’s paternity leave. Gil is there to steady Malcolm and rearrange the nursery for the eighth time, insisting he doesn’t try to move the hefty crib by himself. He cooks, too, or at least picks up food. 

Most importantly, he’s a distraction. Anything that could stress Malcolm spurs him into action. He does it a million ways — drawing Malcolm into looking at houses, bringing him Sunshine, pulling out a book to read to their son, who now knows both of their voices and freely kicks when they talk.

Today, Gil diverts his attention when his phone lights up _Claremont_ again. It’s not the first time his father has wasted his phone time to call over and over again, and it won’t be the last. Malcolm can’t bring himself to block the number, however. If anything were to happen to his father, the caller ID would come up the same, so he lets it ring, lets the stab of guilt well up in his chest. 

Malcolm _misses_ his father. He shouldn’t, but he does.

“C’mon, kid,” Gil murmurs, coming up behind him and slipping his arms under Malcolm’s to wrap around him and their son, “let’s go drop in on your mother for lunch.”

Tilting his head back onto his husband’s shoulder, Malcolm smiles tiredly. “I’m sure she has two place settings ready for us.” The bulk of his calls outside of phone time are from her. She checks in constantly, reminds him that he and Gil are welcome at the house, and requests updates on his pregnancy. Sometimes he thinks she’s more invested than _they_ are. 

When Gil picks out a comfortable outfit, Malcolm puts it on with little fuss. It’s too warm for him, but his pregnancy brain isn’t so bad that he would consider going to his childhood home in boxers. And he _does_ want to see his mother. The part of him that yearns for his parents as he nears the edge of being one himself is desperate for the guidance he certainly isn’t going to get from his father. 

Gil gives him a soft kiss before they leave. “Let me know if it becomes too much.” He opens the door, smiling. “I’ll take the brunt of her disappointment.”

\------------

Predictably, Jessica is thrilled to see them. There’s something utterly genuine about her smile, the way her eyes soften as she sees Malcolm and the swell of his stomach cradled by the soft maternity shirt he wears. She embraces him almost before he can give her the okay.

It makes Gil grin. His own parents are no longer around, and he’s glad their son will have one grandparent in addition to all of their official and unofficial aunts and uncles. Knowing Jessica, she’ll insist on babysitting often, too. He’s sure they’ll take advantage of that once they can stand to let him out of their sight. 

Jessica pulls Gil into a hug afterwards. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t need to. The squeeze she gives him is a clear _thank you_ that he acknowledges with a slight pat on the back. He doesn’t need to be thanked for taking care of Malcolm, of his husband. As soon as they split, he’s right there next to him again, wrapping an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders before they head for the dining room.

Gil holds back a chuckle. He had a feeling his husband was right, but seeing the three empty place settings up by Jessica’s lunch is another thing entirely. The two of them sit across from each other, framing her at the head. He lets a leg stretch out to brush against Malcolm’s. 

“So,” Jessica says once she’s requested two more lunches, “how’s my grandbaby?”

Malcolm takes a sip of water. “The size of a pineapple and very active.” He smiles wryly. “I think he wants to be born as much as I want him to. He already prefers Gil’s voice for storytime.”

“Only because he doesn’t hear me as often,” Gil says, shaking his head. He won’t lie and say that it doesn’t please him to feel their son kick and squirm as he reads whatever classic Malcolm picked for the week, but he’s not blind. It’s not too unusual for him to wake up halfway to find his husband with two hands on his bump, a nursery rhyme on his lips. Malcolm’s the only one who can soothe their son enough for the kicking to ease.

When Jessica doesn’t respond, Gil glances over at her. She dries her eyes carefully with a knuckle so as not to smear her makeup. “Your father always did love reading to you while I was pregnant. Ainsley, too.” Pushing away from the table, she stands up with a watery smile. “I’m going to go check on the kitchen. I’ll be back shortly.”

Gil starts to get up to follow, but Malcolm shakes his head.

“Let me,” he says, getting out of his seat carefully. 

Gil _should_ protest. Malcolm isn’t in the shape to go wandering to find her, not with the aches he’s been having as his body prepares for birth, not with how tired he is from the extra weight he carries. Instead, Gil nods. He has a feeling Malcolm and the presence of their son will do more to help Jessica than he could. 

Still, as the minutes go by, he’s tempted to look for the both of them. He does consider Jessica a friend. Hell, technically, he’s her son-in-law. Gil shakes his head. It’s odd to think about, but it’s true, and he would never give up his marriage no matter how awkward it feels. All that matters now is that she’s upset and Malcolm is uncomfortable on his feet for too long. Surely, there’s some way he could help.

Before he can try, Malcolm walks back into the dining room, arm in arm with his mother and closely followed by a member of her staff carrying two plates. His husband nods to reassure him. 

Gil returns it and engages Jessica in a conversation about houses of all things just to change the topic.

She gladly pounces on it.

\-------------------

When they get home, Malcolm is tired in a very pleasant way, the stress of earlier washed away from the afternoon with his husband and mother. She shared stories of both him and Ainsley as children for hours, much to his embarrassment _and_ comfort. He sits on the edge of their bed and lets himself drop backwards to the mattress. 

Gil chuckles as he hangs up his jacket. “You might want to change first, city boy.” 

Malcolm faces him, cheek against the sheets. “Help me?” He watches his husband slowly remove his shoes, get himself a glass of water, drink half of it, and then, _finally_ , come over to join him. 

First Gil goes for his shoes. Malcolm resorted to slip ons more and more as his pregnancy went on, so all he has to do is ease his heel out and pull the shoe away. Gil sets each one down on the floor next to the bed. Leaning forward, he takes hold of Malcolm’s hips and tugs him down until his ass is just barely on the mattress. Calloused fingers slip under his waistband to work it out from underneath him. Gil pauses to kiss his thigh below the leg of his boxer briefs.

Moaning, Malcolm shivers. He didn’t expect any sex tonight, but now he’s more than ready for it, his cock straining against its confines from the simple touch. It’s still such a thrill every time Gil manages to rile him up so easily. “Gil?”

“Let me take care of you, baby.” He removes his boxers next, just as slowly as he did his pants. Once Malcolm is bare from the waist down, Gil moves to the head of the bed to grab the lube and a pillow, which he drops on the floor. He kneels on it with a small huff.

Malcolm swallows and gladly hooks his legs over his husband’s shoulders when prompted. He can’t exactly see all that much of what’s happening over his bump, but he can feel the way Gil spreads his cheeks and swipes the flat of his tongue over his hole, his goatee brushing against sensitive skin. He cries out.

It earns him a chuckle and another lick, slower this time. Gil takes his time. He keeps his touch light and teasing until Malcolm is shaking. Then, and only then, does he point his tongue and dip into his hole, just briefly, just long enough for Malcolm to try and clench around it. 

Malcolm clutches at the edge of the mattress. His legs are straining. “ _God…_ ”

“Do you think you can handle a little more?” Gil lifts his head and smirks, but there’s a softness there, too. He would stop if Malcolm asked.

Malcolm doesn’t. “Do you think _you_ can?” he breathes out, laughing.

Instead of answering, Gil goes back in, nosing at his balls but not touching his cock, pointing his tongue and spearing him shallowly. He gets him nice and spit slick before adding a lubed finger into the mix. He uses the combination of his tongue and finger to stretch Malcolm at a steady pace. It’s agonizing. Eventually, one finger becomes two, and he pulls his face away as he finds his prostate. “I want you to come for me like this.” Gil grazes the spot again to hear him yelp. “Can you do that for me, baby?”

“ _Yes_. Please, Daddy,” Malcolm says, the word slipping out by accident, but he can’t even bring himself to care. Especially not when it gets him a groan and another finger.

Obviously spurred on by it, his husband returns his attention to his hole. He works his tongue and fingers in tandem again, this time much faster, much more efficiently. He’s not teasing anymore. Now he’s stretching Malcolm and rubbing his prostate and tracing his rim with his tongue. 

Malcolm tenses and shouts as he comes. Gil doesn’t let up, and it rips a whine out of Malcolm, his sensitive body trembling and jerking at the overstimulation. He only goes limp after he’s empty once again, Gil having finally stood to stretch his legs.

“Scooch up for me,” his husband says, one hand undoing his zipper. 

It takes a moment with how loose he feels, but Malcolm manages it, if only because of how much he wants this. He takes a deep breath as Gil kneels on the bed. He jerks at the first nudge against his hole and then _keens_.

Gil fills him slowly, inch by inch, fingers rubbing soothing circles on his hips. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. 

The sex itself is as unhurried as the stretching was. Each thrust is more a smooth glide against still clenching muscles, Gil content to be teased by the aftershocks while he builds Malcolm up for a second orgasm. When Malcolm is finally hard again, throbbing against his sticky stomach, Gil wraps a hand around him and picks up the pace. 

It doesn’t take long before he’s spilling into him, fist moving furiously until Malcolm joins him. 

## 36 Weeks

The days leading up to their birth appointment are filled with anxiety, with _anticipation_. Gil finds himself checking Malcolm’s hospital bag over and over again at his husband’s request. He’s also guilty of checking on it on his own. He wants, _needs_ this to go smoothly for them. 

All three of them. 

So he makes sure that Malcolm’s most comfortable clothes are set aside. A few books make it into the bag, too, both for Malcolm himself and for either of them to read to their son. Gil also packs some of his own clothes — he doesn’t plan to leave the hospital unless he has to. They’re both worried about the stay, about Malcolm having to sleep there, and they’ve already talked with the OB about it. Thankfully, Milton money meant they were going to have as private a room as possible. 

Jessica _gladly_ made the donation.

\------------

Once they get to the hospital, it’s a waiting game. Malcolm needs to be signed in. He needs to change into a gown. He needs to be checked over. He reaches for Gil’s hand and holds it tight, thankfully needing no words to be understood, because his husband is just as anxious to see their son as he is. Gil is going to be there for him, for both of them, the entire time. It was never a discussion. Malcolm wants him there, and Gil wouldn’t think of staying away.

“It’s time,” Gil says into his phone, grin splitting his face, eyes crinkling. “I’ll let you know when all of you can come in.”

Malcolm knows it’s his mother on the other end of the line, because they both agreed it was easiest to tell her and let her spread the news. She’s in the waiting room with his sister and Tally. Dani, JT, and Edrisa are at the precinct, unfortunately, although he’s sure they’ll show up when they can. 

Gil kisses him, deep and loving, before the doctor is back and the process starts.

\------------

When the doctor hands Malcolm his son, gently placing the cleaned baby on his chest, he can’t hold back the tears. Carrying him around for so many months has nothing on actually feeling the squirming weight of him against his skin. With one hand still clasped in Gil’s, he leans in and kisses their son’s wispy brown hair.

He’s not sure what he was afraid of. Just a newborn yet, there’s no sign of Jack in him. It even looks like he’ll grow up to have Malcolm’s coloring, though time will tell in regards to his eyes. He blinks away a fresh wave of tears as Gil trails a tanned finger along the shape of their son’s face. 

“What’s his name, kid?” Gil’s voice is quiet, filled with awe. His eyes are trained on the little pudgy face against Malcolm’s chest. They talked names a little, but they never settled on one officially.

Malcolm shifts the baby closer to Gil. He takes a long look at wrinkled skin, closed eyes, and tiny fingers. “Lucas,” he says eventually. Lucas Arroyo. The middle name can be decided later, though in the moment, watching his husband melt at the sight of their son, he’s tempted to say _Gil_. 

\-------------

It takes all of his willpower to step away from Malcolm and Lucas long enough to fetch the girls from the waiting room. Gil feels like he’s floating down the halls. He’s sure there’s a dopey look on his face, too.

Jessica is on her feet as soon as she sees him. She leads the three women, her steps quick as she nips at Gil’s heels the whole way back to Malcolm’s room. 

Moving to the seat on the other side of the bed, Gil gives them a good view of his husband and son curled up and swaddled. It still awes him to see. 

“Hi mother,” Malcolm says tiredly, shooting Gil a quick smile. “Hey Ains, Tally. Let me introduce you to Lucas Arroyo.”

God, does he feel ridiculously light hearing his husband say the name. Lucas is _their_ son, Jack be damned. 

Jessica’s hand drifts to her mouth as tears gather at the corners of her eyes. “Oh Malcolm, he’s _gorgeous_.”

“He really is, bro,” Ainsley chimes in, setting her purse down on the counter. She lets Tally have the other chair in the room even though she’s not too far along yet.

Speaking of, the pregnant woman pulls out her phone with a grin. “How about a picture for the team? JT said he might not get away for a few hours.”

Gil knows they’re going to tease him for how sappy he looks later if the picture JT sends back is any indication. In it, his and Dani’s smiles are tinged with laughter and joy, Edrisa squished between them with _Congratulations_ written on what he suspects is the back of one of her reports. 

\----------------

Even as entranced by Lucas’ presence as he is, Malcolm notices the softness that overcomes JT’s face when he and the others finally visit. No doubt he’s thinking about Tally and their growing child. Malcolm hides his smile against Lucas’ head. He can’t help but snicker as Dani slaps a hand against Edrisa’s mouth to muffle her squeal, however. 

“Don’t wake the baby,” Dani says, giving the Arroyos a slightly panicked look.

“Sorry,” Edrisa says sheepishly. “He’s just so _cute_.”

Squeezing Gil’s hand and getting another squeeze in return, Malcolm does his best to gather himself. He feels like he’s drowning — in a good way, somehow. “He is, isn’t he?” 

Lucas squirms as if he knows he’s being talked about.

Malcolm turns his head to kiss Gil, overwhelmed and _happy_. 


	26. Epilogue

## Two Years Later

Although Gil has always been an early riser, he’ll never be able to beat his husband or son to greet the day. Malcolm only stays in bed with him until he can’t stand to lay there anymore. Sometimes Gil will wake before he can get up, and on those days they’ll spend a little time entwined in bed trading soft kisses and caresses. Nothing more than that no matter how much they want to push it further, however, because if Malcolm doesn’t lift Lucas out of his crib soon enough, their son inevitably tries to scale the short barred walls, setting off the alarm they’ve set up for just that. 

Anything approaching sex has to wait until Lucas is asleep for the night. That, at least, he hasn’t inherited from Malcolm. He can sleep the whole night through now, to both his parent’s relief. As soon as storytime is over, as soon as his eyes drift shut, as soon as Gil can tuck the teddy bear blanket around him, they’re free to abscond to their bedroom and (quietly) take each other apart. 

_If_ they have the energy. Running around after a toddler is more tiring than Gil anticipated, and that doesn’t account for whatever cases they work on during the day while Lucas is packed up with Jessica. Gil doesn’t tap out immediately, however. He’s just not as ready to crawl around the living room as Malcolm is, but even his husband has his limits. 

Gil rubs the sleep out of his eyes and pulls on a pair of worn pajama pants before heading out to the kitchen where, unsurprisingly, Malcolm is pulling out the ingredients for breakfast. Lucas is on his hip, quietly watching what his dada is doing. 

“What’s for breakfast?” Gil says even as he takes in the preheating griddle and shake and pour bisquick on the kitchen island. It’s a little unusual. Pancakes are typically a special occasion only breakfast in their household. Malcolm may love his sweets, but they’re trying not to get Lucas too addicted.

With a grin, Lucas squirms out of his dada’s arms and makes a beeline right for his papa. “Papa, pancakes!” He squeals when Gil hauls him up into the air.

 _God_ , does Gil love this kid. So much of him is Malcolm. His eyes, blue from the moment he opened them, never changed, and even his face is almost a dead ringer for older pictures of his dada. The biggest difference is his hair. Where Malcolm has straight brown hair, their son has slightly darker curls. Gil kisses his curly head and settles him on his hip. 

When he looks up, Malcolm, already dressed in casual yet expensive clothing, is watching them, a soft smile on his face. 

Gil swallows. Tonight. Tonight will be theirs and theirs _only_. Jessica is taking Lucas for a few days to give them time together alone, and she’s never encountered an issue she couldn’t fix before calling them, which means that there won’t be any interruptions. Tonight, he’s going to wreck Malcolm in ways they’ve never had the chance to. 

Sex between them has had to be quiet and fast for the most part. Even when Lucas isn’t trying to escape his crib, there are times when he needs them for this or that, and so they can’t try to take their time. It’s quick or nothing. They have talked about what they’d _like_ to do. Malcolm is comfortable with Gil, comfortable enough to try things they never would have been able to do when they first started being intimate. No large steps, of course, but something new.

He supposes it _is_ a special occasion after all.

“Could you help him pack his bag?” Malcolm says, screwing the cap back on one of the shake and pour bottles. He, like Gil, is shirtless, a pair of pajama pants swung low on his hips, and Gil can’t help but watch his biceps as he deftly shakes the yellow bottle, mixing the dry ingredients with the water. 

Lucas pokes him in the side. “Papa, my bag.”

Shifting the toddler higher on his hip, Gil gives his amused husband a sheepish smile and turns to go back to Lucas’ room. This, like their initial nursery in the open floor on the loft, was all put together by Malcolm. It’s forest themed. Light, peaceful trees cover the walls, a soft looking bed of grass interspersed with mushrooms towards the floor. There are birds settled on the branches, all different kinds and colors of them, and the ceiling is a sky complete with wispy clouds and the soft glow of the light fixture that mimics the sun. The shelves along the walls are filled with books, both picture books and the kinds of classics Malcolm used to read to Lucas before he was born, and there’s a chest of toys at the end of the small canopied bed.

Gil sets his son down on his feet. “Two toys,” he says firmly. He gets a classic Malcolm look in return, a pleading face complete with wide eyes and a pout. Of course, Gil can’t take it from their son any more than he can from his husband. He’ll give in, he knows he will. Just not right away. He’ll pack up any clothes Lucas needs, and then, when they’re ready to zip up his little suitcase, he’ll agree to three or four toys. 

Sometimes, he needs Malcolm to be the firm one. Gil swears his pout is just more powerful than Lucas’, that it cancels the toddler’s out.

Jessica wants to have her grandson over for two nights. Tonight, she has tickets for a ballet. Lucas wasn’t interested at all until she pulled out some of Malcolm’s old tapes. It won’t surprise Gil if Lucas is signed up for classes by the time they pick him up in two days. The second day is supposed to be a grandma and grandson day, which Gil takes to mean a day out at museums and art galleries with some time at the park inbetween. He wasn’t sure how much of that Lucas could take initially. 

As it turns out, Lucas takes after his dada quite a lot, and he loves his museums. It doesn’t mean he’s nothing like Gil, however. In fact, Gil thinks as he packs their son’s favorite Yankee’s pajamas, they’re pretty similar. Malcolm goes with them to games all the time, but he doesn’t enjoy them the way that Gil and Lucas do. He’ll buy a hat and get the ballpark snacks and bask in family time. He won’t follow the game itself or really understand why his husband and son are cheering. 

Lucas also enjoys soft clothes the way his papa does. Maybe it’s from a life of being cuddled up to cable-knits and pullovers, but their son has plenty of sweaters of his own in his closet. Gil packs two in next to the pajamas. They’re classy enough that Jessica will dress him up in them without a fuss. For today, they’re sending him over in a shirt and jeans. She already told them she had formal clothes for him for the ballet at the Whitly house. Lastly, he packs in a pair of darker jeans. Lucas is too curious and brave to wear less sturdy pants most days. 

When Gil comes back from the bathroom, a toddler-sized toiletry bag in hand, he finds his son cross-legged on the floor with three toys in front of him. They’re some of his favorites — a white and orange stuffed cat, a jet black stuffed dog, and oddly enough, a yellow stuffed triceratops. The dinosaur was a present from Izzie, JT and Tally’s little girl and Lucas’ best friend. That alone means Lucas always has it with him. 

“Papa,” Lucas says, wielding those big blue eyes again, silently pleading.

Gil pretends to consider it. “There’s only room for two in the suitcase, kiddo.” He forces down a grin when those eyes go wider. “You’re usually a good boy for grandma. I’ll let you take one more, _but_ you have to carry it. ”

With a happy whoop, Lucas puts his stuffed cat and dog into the suitcase, setting his triceratops aside. Gil helps him zipper it closed. 

Their son practically skips down the hall, his suitcase rolling smoothly behind him. 

Gil, chuckling, follows him and the smell of fresh pancakes. 

Breakfast is done. He lifts Lucas up into his chair and cuts his pancakes and bacon into toddler-sized pieces before taking his own seat. Malcolm leans over to give him a quick kiss. “It smells good, kid.” 

“I used your recipe,” Malcolm says dryly, a teasing smile on his lips. He digs into his breakfast, cutting his pancakes into pieces and popping them in his mouth with the occasional bite of bacon. 

Gil laughs and pours syrup all over his plate. 

\-----------

Jessica is, as always, thrilled to see the three of them. She immediately makes grabby hands to take Lucas from Gil’s arms and hikes him up on her hip. Their son endures the face kisses with a sweet grace Gil swears he also got from Malcolm. Usually when they drop him off, she invites them in for a few minutes or even a meal, some _family time_ , she insists. Today, however, she takes the child-sized suitcase from Malcolm and bids them goodbye.

Gil turns to give Malcolm a look, but his husband merely smirks back at him.

“Let’s go home, Gil.”

\--------------

Back at their house, they curl up on the couch to watch an old classic, just like they used to. With two nights to themselves, they’re in no rush to get to the sex. 

Malcolm pulls away as the credits roll and stretches his arms. “I was thinking Fillipino for lunch,” he says casually. In reality, he’s already talked to one of the employees and set up an order for around noon. He even paid for it. All he has to do is call them to let them know Gil is on his way, and they’ll prepare the food fresh. Perhaps this will give away some of his surprise, but Malcolm doesn’t care.

He’s been planning this all week. 

“Sure, kid,” his husband says, smiling softly as he no doubt thinks about what has become their favorite restaurant. They’ve even taken Lucas there to be fawned over by the staff and introduced to some of his adopted heritage.

Malcolm grins. “I’ll call it in. You head out awhile.”

With a short kiss, Gil does as asked.

And Malcolm is alone. He lets his hand slip beneath his soft shirt and rest on his still flat stomach. It took two years of therapy and eventually bare sex, but he’s pregnant again, and this time, he’s enjoying it from the very beginning. His OB confirmed it only a week prior. Since then, he’s slowly and silently cut down on caffeine and alcohol and held back on his oh so familiar savory cravings. 

He wonders, briefly, if Gil noticed he didn’t use syrup on his pancakes that morning. 

Shaking his head, Malcolm makes his way to the bedroom. They keep their toys and lube locked up in a chest at the foot of the bed nowadays, and so he unlocks it to pull out a bottle and his favorite plug. It’s not his favorite because it’s big. In fact, it _isn’t_ terribly big, and that’s why he loves it. He’ll still be able to feel the thick stretch of Gil’s cock after it. 

He tugs his boxer briefs down just enough, slicks up the plug, and sighs as he works it in, his body familiar enough with the sensation to take it with little pressure. If he had more time, he might spend more time with himself, but Gil should be back soon. He doesn’t want to be caught fingering himself into oblivion. It would ruin the order of his plans. Pulling his boxer briefs up again, he pads out to the kitchen and carefully sits at the island, biting his lip to stifle a moan as the plug shifts inside of him. 

It doesn’t take long for Gil to come back, a big paper bag in hand. He looks at Malcolm, amused, and pulls the styrofoam containers out one by one. “You’re hungrier than usual.”

Malcolm shrugs and smiles, reaching for the smallest of the containers and flicking it open. His eyes close as he smells the sweet savory tang of the tocino. _This_ is what he’s been craving for days now. The bacon that morning helped, but there’s nothing like the little slices of caramelized pork in front of him. He goes in with his fingers, uncaring of how sticky they’ll get.

“Kid,” Gil says roughly. “Are you…?”

Malcolm looks him straight in the eyes as he sucks on his fingers. “Six weeks.”

Abandoning the rest of the containers, his husband rounds the island and immediately pulls him into a kiss, tasting the sweet and salty traces in his mouth, on his tongue. He rests his forehead against Malcolm’s when they part. There’s so much in his eyes, so much he clearly wants to say. Nothing comes out.

“I know,” Malcolm says, licking his lips. “Let’s eat, okay?”

Gil groans but nods and pulls away to bring the rest of the containers closer. He pops each one open and suddenly needs to wipe at his eyes. “Malcolm…” It’s the same meal they had after their wedding — two servings of chicken adobo and cassava cake for dessert. They had a big reception seven months after Lucas was born at Jessica’s behest with all of the team in attendence, and the food there was certainly wonderful, but it has nothing on that first meal they shared as a married couple, tucked in the little Fillipino place they love so much. 

Malcolm gives his husband a sticky peck on the cheek, having dipped back into his tocino again. “I wanted today to be special.” It took a bit of careful planning, though his mother was on board the moment she heard the word _pregnant_ , instantly giddy at the prospect of another grandchild to spoil. She gladly agreed to take Lucas for a few days. The staff at the restaurant were always happy to hear from them, too. The hardest part was not revealing his hand too early. It meant not satisfying his cravings the way he wanted to, not touching the smooth skin of his flat stomach, not telling Gil that he’ll be a father all over again.

“You’ve done good, kid,” Gil murmurs, a little choked up.

Malcolm kisses him again before insisting they eat.

\----------

As soon as the leftovers are in the fridge, Gil lets his husband drag him to their bedroom. He still feels like he’s floating on the knowledge that they’re having another child. He can’t wait to be able to see Malcolm develop the way he couldn’t with his first pregnancy, to be there for every little thing along the way. Malcolm is already glowing with it. Now that he knows, Gil can see it. 

“Stay there for a moment,” his husband says, half a demand and half a plea. He slowly pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the smooth skin of his stomach and the light dusting of hair on his chest and leading down into his boxer briefs. The shirt drops by his feet. He slides his boxers down until they slip down his legs. He kicks them away, hard cock bobbing against his stomach. 

When Gil goes to move, assuming the show is over, Malcolm holds up a hand and smirks. Gil stays where he is.

And then Malcolm gets on the bed, crawling up on all fours until he’s in the middle, facing the headboard and away from Gil. The base of his favorite plug peeks out from between his cheeks.

“ _Fuck_ , kid,” Gil bites out, pants feeling uncomfortably tight.

Malcolm looks over his shoulder. “Come over here and fuck me, Daddy.”

It doesn’t take Gil long to lose his clothes. This is something they talked about, Malcolm on all fours. Gil knows he’ll have to talk to him, to keep him grounded, to make sure he can’t forget who’s fucking him, but he doesn’t mind. This is something they’ve both wanted for a _long_ time. He settles on the bed behind his husband and grips his cheeks, spreading them to get a good look at the plug he’s stuffed with. “Look at you, all ready for me.”

“I couldn’t wait.” Malcolm pushes back into his hands.

Gripping the base of the plug, Gil yanks it out. He groans when Malcolm whines. “I see that,” he says as he watches his hole clench around nothing. “Be good for Daddy and hand me the lube.”

Malcolm reaches under the pillow and passes it back.

Gil chuckles and gives him a light spank. “You’re so beautiful and eager, Malcolm.” He slicks up his cock. “And all mine.” He lines himself up and sinks in. 

“I’m carrying your child,” Malcolm gasps. He trembles, no doubt feeling the stretch. He always feels tight when he uses this plug. “All yours.”

“Our second,” Gil corrects, draping himself over his husband’s back, one hand on the bed next to him, the other arm wrapped around where he’ll soon swell. This isn’t going to last long. He knew that as soon as he realized Malcolm was pregnant again.

Good thing they have the next two days free.

Unable to hold back this time, Gil begins fucking him, snapping his hips into the heat of him. Declarations of love buzz between his lips and Malcolm’s skin along with _beautiful, ours, Christ, kid_.

“Daddy,” his husband moans, pleading. “I’m close.”

Gil’s hand drifts down from his stomach to his cock. He strokes him as fast as he can handle, feeling Malcolm’s hips jerk and twist underneath him. When he comes, his hole clenching tightly, rhythmically, Gil grips both of his hips and chases his own orgasm with a handful of rough thrusts. “ _Malcolm_.”

Carefully rolling them onto their sides, Gil’s hand splays across Malcolm’s stomach again as he melts over his husband’s back. His cock, softening as the last jets of his come fill him up, slips out a little. Gil groans but holds Malcolm close, neither of them willing to separate so soon.

“I love you, Gil,” Malcolm says. He turns his head and kisses him. His face is flushed, his lips red from being bitten. “So much.”

Gil smiles at him, at the man he never thought would be his, at the carrier of his children and the person who’s been by his side for so many years in one form or another. He can’t imagine _not_ loving him at this point. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, folks! It's been a wild journey for me, and I'm so happy to have finished this, because it is now my longest work EVER, fanfiction or not, and I'm so, SO proud of it. So proud, in fact, that I've decided to deanon. It's even, as I type this, the third longest fic in the fandom. I know that will change, but it's still very exciting!
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your kudos, your wonderful comments, and even just the time you all put into being on this journey with me.
> 
> Special thanks to all my goblins, who cheered me on the entire way and are singlehandedly (multihandedly?) responsible for me finishing this beautiful beast. I put some little nods to some of you guys in here, but unfortunately I couldn't figure out how to mention ALL of you haha. I love ya all <3<3<3<3<3<3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [PSon Goblin Swap Summer 2020!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24916822) by [prodigalsanyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo)




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